


There's a difference

by mee4ever



Series: There's a difference [1]
Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Bad Sex, Cheating, Crime Fighting, Crime Scenes, Falling In Love, Fucking, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insomnia, Investigations, Lies, Lies of Omission, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minho describes about rape culture and friends of his falling victims to men, Minho's the serial killer, Murder, Newt's the detective, Newtmas sex, Not a Relationship, POV Minho, POV Newt, Podfic, Podfic Available, Podfic Length: 3-3.5 Hours, Press and Tabloids, Serial Killers, Sex, Stalking, but it is a relationship, there are some thomas/newt going on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:04:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 28,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5460755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mee4ever/pseuds/mee4ever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Prepare,” Thomas says and everything feels weird. Newt’s stomach turns cold. Does he know this victim? When he finally looks a the body, he can’t but just gape.<br/>“Well, fuck,” Newt says under his breath. Thomas nods beside him. Because on the pavement, next to the body, next to the signature “RH”, are for the first time something else too. There are four new letters, there are four letters to break pattern. Their serial killer are really starting to appear genuinely mental. And stalkerish. In blood, messy but readable, is the name “NEWT” spelled out.</p><p>Or the one where Minho is a serial killer and Newt has the job to catch him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So. [Lovi](http://evilqueenofslytherin.tumblr.com/) ordered a Minewt Detective!Newt and Serial killer!Minho (based on [this](http://mintnewt.tumblr.com/post/131273836603/copfbi-newt-and-sociopath-killer-minho) post) and I was like: I need a 40k fic right this instant. Instead of getting that, I'm trying to write a 40k this instant. There will hopefully be 21 chapters in the same length as this one and hopefully it will be awesome. 
> 
> I will update the tags whenever I add a new chapter, and it's worth mentioning there **will** be graphical descriptions of violence, there will be sexual content and the story will change rating in later chapters. 
> 
> Completely unedited podfic can be found [here](https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B2Ld0Z_VEG97QndwWm82bGpNSFk). 
> 
> Also, shout out to my beta [Alice](http://ladyteatotal.tumblr.com/), who worked on most of the later chapters<3
> 
> I highly appreciate feedback and you are also more than welcome to point out spelling or grammatical errors since English isn't my first language.

May 17, 2015.

When the call comes in at five-thirty on Sunday morning, Newt is already awake. Awake, but not really conscious; aware is probably a better word because he has been up the whole night. Not doing anything. Just stared. It is something he has grown used to happening every once in a while so he can disregard his own tiredness and exhaustion, at least when he works. Always when he works. His boss had said to be there before six. He does the math and it’s a twenty-minute drive, maybe twenty-five. It’s over thirty if he wants coffee. He manages to roll out of bed and carefully put on some clothes in just under ten minutes. His skin feels hyper alert and the fabrics almost hurt around his limbs. Oversensitivity comes with the sleepless nights. He tries to ignore it, as he walks through the dark apartment in search for his keys. Wonders how he can be so very careful with his service weapon and badge, but always seem to lose his keys. It shouldn’t even be a probability. The microwave in the kitchen says five-forty-seven when he finally finds them. If he goes straight there, he can almost make it in time. He’s had a long week. Fuck it.

Newt wants coffee.

The traffic slows him down another five minutes. Newt comes to the crime scene after everyone else, it’s almost six-thirty now. He doesn’t care, it’s a pretty untrafficated spot and this case is not in dire need to be wrapped up and finished. No one’s going to give him the stink-eye, he’s the only one who wanted this case and he’s probably the only one who can solve it. They need him to come at all more than he needs to be on time. He didn’t as much take the case or accept it, he was handed the file with a smile that said: “You’re taking this because nobody else wants it and even if you’re one of the best, you’re also one of the youngest and have been here the shortest time, which means if you don’t take it, we can fire you.” Pretty much. His sixth murder on the case, the fourteenth in the file. He can see Thomas in the bunch of people closest to the body and decides to dodge him for as long as he can.

They’re not really friends. They sort of just ran into each other in the elevator at work one time and Newt haven’t really been able to shake him since. Not that he’s stalking Newt or anything, no, he just sort of stuck onto Newt’s life and even though he’s a brat most of the time, Newt confesses that he _likes_ him. Newt inspects the surroundings instead of thinking of, or talking to, Thomas. He looks at the streets layout, the corners, if there are any cameras in short distance (there aren’t) and comes to the conclusion that it’s exactly like he expected it to be. A quiet street, in a neighborhood no one expects anything to happen. He’s seen it a few times now.

There is no use in running when Thomas eventually does catch sight of him. Newt just thinks that maybe he should get laid. He and Thomas sleep together at times, pretty often actually, so it wouldn’t be a big thing. Just relax for an hour or two. Thomas wouldn’t say no. It’s Newt who says no, even more than he says yes. Thomas doesn’t look to be in the mood at the moment, in any sort of good mood really. His big puppy eyes are almost slits, his upturned nose a scrunched mess and his lips a thin line. How can he still be cute when he bears that expression? Newt rolls his eyes internally; it’s because he’s always had a sweet spot for Thomas’s face, how much of a fuckboy he’s behaving. As he approaches, Newt looks away and pretends he hasn't seen him.

“Have you seen it yet?” Thomas asks when he ducks under the police tape to Newt’s left.

“Good morning, Tommy, how nice to see you,” Newt replies without offering him a glance or even a tiny bit cheeriness. There is a sort of status quo between them. Thomas doesn't greet him, he starts talking like they were in the middle of a conversation, Newt ignores Thomas’s initial statements and makes sure Thomas understand that he thinks he's acting childish. If they don't do this, Newt doesn' know what would happen. They always do that.

“I’m serious, _Newtie,_ ” Thomas says, his name rolls off with a mocking tone. “I need to know if you’ve seen the body?” He ends the sentence rather hoarse and Newt finally looks back at him. His expression still hasn’t changed. When Newt now sees it up close, he can see that it reeks of concern and confusion. He shakes his head, no, he hasn't seen the body. He hasn’t really talked to anyone else either, which he suddenly finds odd. His team usually briefs him whenever he arrives, he is the senior investigator after all. But that hasn’t happened today. Everyone have left him to his own machine. Like he wants them to. Like they shouldn’t do.

“What is it, Thomas?” Newt asks, sternly.

“Just come and see it.”

Newt isn’t particularly keen on things not going his way, they have already been shit this week. He would’ve just loved a quiet Sunday sulking at home. The press conference he did on Tuesday had stirred up a hell lot of fucking shit and it hadn’t cooled down one single bit yet. The press was relentless and he is surprised that he hasn’t seen Teresa lurking around yet. Maybe she is asleep like the rest of the world and doesn’t care for another murder before Monday morning. One can wish. She was the one to post the first story of his “positivity” and “encouragements” towards “the Robin Hood of killers”. It hadn’t been pretty because even if she’d turned his words around and made him say other things than he had, she still made him into some sort of bad guy in the scenario and the murderer into the hero. Somehow after all this time on the case, the press doesn't fucking like him.

The rest of the week had just been totally screwed after that. Alby, the boss, had been even more sour than usually and at a few times in their “conversation” after the PC, he’d even raised his voice. It wasn’t an Alby thing to do, so Newt had taken it very seriously and felt even worse afterward. It wasn’t like he’d intentionally said the wrong thing. He hadn’t even understood at the time that it had been, his personal feelings had just managed to come out, feelings he barely accepted himself that he had. It had been stupid and he never wanted to do one of those again. Especially if Teresa would be in the audience.

Thomas held the tape up for Newt and even if it was a nice gesture, he didn’t like it. It made him feel crippled. His leg had started to act up on Friday and Thomas is always very good at seeing when it does. The limp isn’t very noticeable on the good days, but sometimes it just says _fuck you, Newt, imma make you suffer_ and does for a few days. He’s not House. He doesn’t need a stick and he’s not a drug addict (even though he might pop one pill too many at occasional times) and he’s not bitter. He’s had the limp since he was a teen and he’d grown used to that, just as the insomnia. It was just another part of his life. Detective doesn't have to outrun unlawful citizens. They needed to be meticulous and see connections. Not make conclusions without evidence, and sweet talk the press when they needed to. They needed to close cases and put bad guys behind bars. There were only one of those things he didn’t exceed at (fuck the press) but in the others, he was pretty good. He was fine. One of the best sort of fine.

A few agents from Newt’s team run around the inner circle of the scene, there is still photographs being taken and he wonders if they’d all been late. Photos should be done quickly. Everyone stares at him when he nears the body and he tries to avoid every gaze. Fun way to end the week. Thomas is close behind and he puts a hand on Newt’s arm for a second. Newt looks at it.

“Prepare,” Thomas says and everything feels weird. Newt’s stomach turns cold. Does he know this victim? Is it someone they work with? There are too many possibilities since nobody has told him anything. He is suddenly not at all in the mood to see the person who’s laying dead on the ground. It takes him a moment to look away from Thomas to the body. When he does, he can’t but just gape.

“Well, fuck,” Newt says under his breath. Thomas nods beside him. Because on the pavement, next to the body, next to the signature “RH”, are for the first time something else too. There are four new letters, there are four letters to break pattern. Their serial killer is really starting to appear genuinely mental. And stalkerish. In blood, messy but readable, is the name “NEWT” spelled out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minho is already outside the bar when the man comes out, laughter still in the air and a too big grin on his face. It's not until the man leaves that Minho starts thinking that he can do something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that this is a flashback from 2013. There will be some jumping around in time during this fic. 
> 
> I will update the tags whenever I add a new chapter, there will be sexual content and the story will change rating in later chapters. 
> 
> I highly appreciate feedback and you are also more than welcome to point out spelling or grammatical errors since English isn't my first language.

November 11, 2013.

He sees him, _Connor Jones_ , as soon as he enters the bar. There have been so many articles about him, there have been so much coverage in the news. About the good Christian _boy_ who’d never hurt anyone. Never. Can’t have raped eleven people. This Connor, is twenty-three and nowhere near the innocent little kid that everyone feels so sorry for, reasons for their bad feelings unknown. The papers have insisted that if the verdict had gone down “guilty”, his whole life would’ve been over, his career would’ve been over. _So what,_ Minho thinks, _if his life is over?_ It isn’t like the man does good in it. So when he comes in, with his head high and his shoulders relaxed with four of his male friends in toe, Minho doesn’t only notice him; he is not able to stop looking at him.

He blatantly stares at the man for the rest of the evening. Makes it as secret as he can, though, by seating himself so that the people who play darts are just behind Connor and he’s gang of friends. They’re laughing and the sound makes Minho’s ears bleed. Why are they laughing with this awful fucking human being? Why are they even hanging around him? Why aren’t they kicking him senseless? Minho doesn’t even try to act interested in the few people that hit on him.

He’s somewhat fascinated with Connor. He’s curios about all the rage that this man brings out of him. In real life, Minho has never seen this man before and still he now wants to know how it feels to put his foot to his temple. He wants to know how this man begs for pain to stop. What his body will look like when he tries to crawl away from him and the way his breaths will wheeze. It doesn’t even scare him that he thinks it.

Minho is already outside the bar when the man comes out, laughter still in the air and a too big grin on his face. It's not until the man leaves that Minho starts thinking that he can do something.

Minho have just graduated college. The four years have been filled with classmates getting groped and sexually assaulted and raped. He was aware before he started that it was a problem in today’s society, men not knowing boundaries, but he wasn’t aware of the proportion of it. He has heard people talking about it like it wasn’t a life-changing experience for the victims. He didn’t dare scream at them for being so stupid, because when his friend Sonya was date-raped, she didn’t leave her apartment for three months because she was scared of everything and everyone, or when it happened to Minho’s classmate Harriet she didn’t dare walk alone anywhere (and the guy wasn’t even kicked out of school), or when Minho dated Beth for a short while, and there had been so much crying about wanting to have sex but not daring since she didn’t know what could happen because she’d been through some uncaring men in the past. He didn’t dare to stand up for his friends, for anyone, and he felt ashamed about it every day. When the internet told him that "she wasn’t wearing the right clothes, it's her fault" or "well, he’s gay so it’s okay" or "if I was the guy who got raped I would've enjoyed it” or “she should take it as a compliment" he wants to punch the people behind the screens. Minho gets so _angry._ Because it’s not their fault, it’s the rapist fault. It’s the person who violates another human being, it never _can_ be the person who gets violated that’s doing something wrong. That’s not how the world works. But apparently it does.

There is no plan. Minho just follows Connor, a good twenty steps behind and doesn’t really know what he’s doing, what he’s going to do. There is just the need to do that _something._ A gnawing in his brain, an itch in his fingers, a thought of _revenge_ in his mind. This man won’t face any prison walls, this man will never pay for his actions, this man will never learn that what he did was wrong. Minho thinks that the justice system works in the offenders favour and wants to give justice a voice. A proper voice. A punishment that fits the crime. He can do it, he thinks. If he can do that something now, it will maybe make up for some of the shit his friends have gone through, it will somehow settle things a little better in the world.

Connor doesn’t seem to know where he’s heading. He’s just mindlessly walking around, a beer bottle still in hand and for what Minho can hear, he sings to himself. Minho keeps him in sight, but he’s mind is starting to wander, to more sensical thoughts. Because, really? What is he going to do? What can he ever do to change the world? The man in front of him suddenly stiffens up and quiets down. He proceeds to _lurk._ Behind a tree and the whole freaking cliché thing. And the girl that walks a fifty feet forward is wearing headphones.

Minho snaps. In a heart beat he’s running. He doesn’t reflect, he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t want to. He’s by Connor’s side way quicker than anticipated and he is throwing a punch as the other man turns his head towards Minho. Minho stares at his own glove-covered hand for a second before looking Connor in the eye. The other man is too shocked, too drunk or a combination of both to say anything. And then Minho repeats the gesture, hits the man in the face, over and over and over and suddenly Connor’s laying in the thin layer of snow and Minho is sitting on his knees over him and he just _keeps hitting him._ The man doesn’t fight back. He doesn’t have a chance to. He doesn’t beg. He’s just gurgling and Minho suspects that his teeth are mostly broken. There is blood. A lot of it and it’s all over the man’s face and in his eyes and it looks so colorful in contrast to the snow. Minho finds himself thinking, afterwards, that he likes it: the redness and what it stands for.

He's never been particularly fond of violence. Never been one for picking fights or starting trouble at school. There had been the few brawls at frat parties in the first years of college, which he definitely went out of the winner, but more because of lucky punches than anything else. This would be different. This would mean other things, make him feel other things. It wouldn't make him feel particularly powerful, but it would make him feel like he made a difference. He didn't know it yet but it wouldn't be the last time he felt it. It would be the first.

Connor is lying motionless on the ground with a broken bottleneck through the side of his throat.

When Minho was seven, his mother had told him that sometimes it’s not the way we execute our actions that defines us, it’s the reasons. You can do something that turned out to be bad, but your motives where to make things better and that would mean that you still were a good person. He hadn't wanted to listen. Because when his dad had left them, it had been without a final goodbye and Minho had cried and cried and asked his mother why he didn’t even want to see him. _He did it to spare you,_ she’d explained and Minho hadn’t understood. He does now.

For the body under him, there are many reasons for. The act of impulse. Act of revenge. Act of mercy. Act of justice. Act of passion. Act of anger. Act of… giving a fucking shit. Act of desperation. Act of karma. Act of concern and the act of trying so hard to do something when the time to step up has come. The selfless act of being the one to do what’s though when nobody else can. The act of a righteous man. And the act of no regrets.

The sight beneath him is unreal, but too real at the same time. Like he can see it and understands that it is there and very real but it still feels like he’s seeing it through somebody else's eyes. Minho is staring and gasping for air and the adrenaline pumps and the only thing that goes through his mind then, is that this feels so _good_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The file is slapped down in Newt’s desk with a loud thunk. He looks at it for a second before looking up at Alby with one raised eyebrow.  
> “Your new case, Greenie,” Alby says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that this is a flashback from 2014. There will be some jumping around in time during this fic. 
> 
> Thank you so much for following the story and commenting, means a lot!
> 
> I will update the tags whenever I add a new chapter, there will be sexual content and the story will change rating in later chapters. 
> 
> I highly appreciate feedback and you are also more than welcome to point out spelling or grammatical errors since English isn't my first language.

June 30, 2014.

The file is slapped down on Newt’s desk with a loud thunk. He looks at it for a second before looking up at Alby with one raised eyebrow.

“Your new case, greenie,” Alby says. Newt isn't a greenie. He's been on the force for almost four years already, more than at least five other people but it doesn't seem to bother Alby.  Anyone who's been there a shorter period of time than him is a “greenie” and probably always will be. But he says it more to Newt than any of the others and Newt highly suspects that it's because he is also the youngest still. At the beginning, it wasn’t weird being singled out as the young one, but he doesn’t feel young anymore. He’s twenty-six but during this past few years, he’s seen so much shit that he feels like he’s already old and used to it. Maybe he just grows used to things to quickly. Or maybe death does this to a person.

“Is that all?” Newt asks with a glance at the inch thick file that is currently on top of all the rest of his papers. It screws up with his order of things and he doesn't like it. Alby just chuckles and waves his hand at Newt like he's being funny. Newt understands why when Jeff slams an evidence box of paper down on the desk next to the first file.

“And that's just the papers,” he says with a grin and Newt cringes because that means there will be so many more boxes of actual evidence down in the basement. Probably a dozen for the amount of paperwork that he now has in front of him. He sneaks a better peek at the original beige piece that Alby left for him.

**CASE FILE: 2057.AJ.943**

**“ROBIN HOOD”**

He sighs. Doesn't want to read more because he knows that it's not gonna be an early evening.

Janson is the oldest detective on the squad. Over thirty years he's been here and he always end up with the easiest cases to close, but he'd drawn the short straw with Robin Hood. Seven months he'd been on the case without solving anything really. As Newt reads the reports, he can see why. No physical evidence can put anyone else at the crime scenes than the victims. There are no DNA traces, tracks nearby are tampered with and the murder weapon is always a cracked bottle which never has any type of fingerprints. It's dead ends. Everywhere. There are no cameras to catch the act, no witnesses, no pattern of time between the killings. They appear random. They are done in different part of the town. The only real connection between the victims are that they're all white males in their twenties to thirties. And they all have a history of sexual violence. Repeated sexual violence. None of the men have been convicted, everyone charged but not found guilty. Newt realises when he's just a couple of pages into the summary, that the other files in the box aren't just about this case, they're about the cases of the murdered men too. If anyone would be home to wait for him, by now he would've called to tell them not to. Now, all he does is gets a refill of his coffee and takes off his shoes. If he's going to be here for the rest of the evening, which he will, he might as well be a little more comfortable.

When he's gone through a third of the first file, he finally gets to the first actual case. The first murder. He's read the fine bits already, that it's a bit different from all of the rest but he's surprised by how much it differs. There is no signature on it, as a first. No “RH” written in blood beside the body. Newt remembered how the tabloids had given the killer the name, the journalist Teresa to be precise, and after that the signature started appearing. It was after the second murder. But the first one doesn’t _feel_ the same way as the rest of them do either. He hasn’t been heavily involved before now, but there have always been some sort of distansition between the victims and the killer. Somehow, this first, feels very intimate. It doesn’t feel planned, it feels like an impulse rather than something that the killer had known would happen. If feels like a first time offend and if Newt didn’t know that this was the Robin Hood killer, Newt wouldn’t really want to say that it was. There are too many things that are the same though, the cracked bottleneck, the sex-offender, the white male, the no witnesses. Newt believes that it was just coincidences and luck, for this first crime. It wasn’t at all something that Robin cared about in that moment.

He stays until two in the morning, reading up on the case. When he finally drags himself home, he’s exhausted but as soon as his head hits the pillow there is no Sandman coming to bring him dreams. It’s pitch-black and he stares into it. The murders roam through his mind. The victims victims. Half of the murdered guys had been serial rapists. Two of the rest had been caught for human trafficking. One of the remaining had been a child molester and the last one had raped a disabled woman when she was his patient in a hospital, for years. They weren’t innocent people but somehow they’d managed to never be put in prison. They all were of rich families and had gotten the best lawyers and every single one had walked free. Even that first victim. To kill them, is a very Robin Hood thing to do, Newt thinks.

Janson didn’t so much give up on the case as he passed it forward because he was stuck. He didn’t find anything new, he didn’t get anywhere. Told Alby that the case needed new eyes and hinted that Newt had just wrapped up a smuggling case, therefore hadn’t anything big resting on his shoulders anymore. Newt couldn’t really say no. He got a case, he closed it and then he got a new case. He was still too new to be able to throw a fit because he would like to keep this job. There isn’t much room for conversation regarding these type of things when it comes to Alby. If there are any sort of real problems, his door is open but when it comes to cases there’s just no argue.

He tries to sleep for a few hours, before seeing himself defeated and he gets up again. He didn’t take the case home. He wish he had because then he wouldn’t have found himself back in the office at five o’clock in the morning. When his co-workers start dropping in, he doesn’t greet them. He’s just too invested in the reading at this point. Because the second case is somehow a bridge. It’s a lot like the rest of the cases, but it’s also the one that looks mostly like the first. It doesn’t have the signature yet, but it bares the signature anyway. The bottle, the rapist, the everything. But there is calculation now. There is precision to it, there is no “heat of the moment”, there’s one of the first differences between not knowing what you’re doing and actually intend to do something. It’s where, Newt thinks, a killer becomes a murderer.

Ben and Frypan joins him by ten. They’re ordered to keep up with the investigation. Newt doesn’t dislike them, but he’s not particularly fond of them either, so he keeps their conversations brief and sticks to just telling them what to do. They might both be older than him, but he outranks them. None of the others seem to really mind, they're positive sort of people and somehow always take his commands with a smile; Newt wants to know how they do it. He's not smiling very often. Maybe the two of them get assigned to him because of it. Because they can take his _gloom_ and sleep deprivation and still do what they're told and still do it good. If nothing else, he's at least happy to have them. Time passes two o’clock and suddenly there is Chinese take-out on his desk. Frypan gives him a knowing look and with a head tilt urges him to eat it.

“Don't want to go repeating last year, do we?” he says briskly and  Newt nods. It's not a taunt, it's a casual reminder. A reminder that Newt had neglected to eat for four whole days and that combined with his lack of sleep had ended him in a hospital bed and almost without a job. So, no, that isn't worth repeating. He eats his lunch and wishes that he could just be a normal human being that can sleep and remembers to eat and the biggest problems he faced was losing his keys and catching bad guys. Can't always be so lucky.

It's Newt’s seventh day on the case when the murderer strikes again.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't go back to the scenes for some sick sort of rush, he's not _that kind_ of killer. The reason is purely to try and see if he can overhear the police talking about the case, if any of them get _why_ it’s happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY THIS TAKES FOREVER. pls bear with me. This is also barley read through, ugh, doing that some other day, i just wanted it out! 
> 
> Note that this is a flashback from 2014. There will be some jumping around in time during this fic.
> 
> I will update the tags whenever I add a new chapter, there will be sexual content and the story will change rating in later chapters.
> 
> I highly appreciate feedback and you are also more than welcome to point out spelling or grammatical errors since English isn't my first language.

June 17, 2014.

He doesn't go back to the scenes for some sick sort of rush, he's not _that kind_ of killer. The reason is purely to try and see if he can overhear the police talking about the case, if any of them get  _why_ they'rehappening. He does sometimes hear things, but never about anything important. The Ratman and his crew is usually not very talkative and especially not around a crowd. And there’s always a crowd. It’s easy to blend in.

It has been eight months since he killed Connor. Time has gone by him at the speed of light and the killing had… made an impression. Good enough so that he had continued. Actually _planned_. To look up other men, other never convicted men that should have been judged in other ways, harsh ways. Rich - white - dudes with too many people behind them, Minho had sought a few out and by a few he meant eight, including Connor. So far. He’d started looking into the men as soon as he’d calmed down from thinking that he would go to prison for the rest of his life, after the initial shock had settled. After he had waited for the guilt to kick in. And it never had. He'd been quite scared of himself for those few weeks as he waited for the cops to come knocking on his door as and he followed the murder case thoroughly. It turned out that there hadn't been a single witness and after a month, he was pretty sure that he wouldn’t be a hunted man. So he decided, in the tub one night, that there were other men that would meet the same destiny as Connor. By the same hands.

The Ratman doesn't show up. None of his team either, at least not the core one, just a few of the forensics looks to be the same. There is no one present to take charge, so everyone's running around and it's chaos. Minho stands in the crowd and follows their movements, careful to not push too far forward but still keep an eye on what’s happening. Minho takes interest in one of the usual forensics, a man that never seems to be able to be still and never seemed to get along with the Ratman. He looks particularly on edge today, pacing a lot like he’s waiting for something. Or someone. When Minho really looks, _everyone_ seems to be waiting. Sure, there are work being done, small yellow tags are being placed, photographs are being taken, people are _watching intently._ Everything could be as usual except it isn’t.

The forensic suddenly rises up.  

“Newt!” the man yells and Minho looks in the same direction as the guy is waving. “Newt” seems to be a person, probably who the man’s been waiting for, because there’s a blond guy walking (though it looks pretty forced) towards him. They converse for a while, in hushed tones. At least low enough so that the words don't reach Minho.

“What do you think they’re saying?” a women beside him asks after nudging Minho’s shoulder and stands on her tippy toes.

“Maybe they’re wondering where the boss is?” Minho offers. The woman laughs and nods towards the two men again.

“Looks like we’ve found him.” Minho glances over and is a bit taken aback when the blond man is now standing with all the forensics and investigators in a circle around him. He’s talking to them and gesturing and he seems to be the one in charge. Like he’s Ratman’s replacement, Minho thinks, but he can’t be older than Minho himself. Barley looks like he’s allowed to drink. “Newt” has a boyish face and his hair looks too long and he’s very good looking and shit, he’s really in charge. Two claps of hands from the blond one makes everybody start working again and Minho needs to know who this man is. Ratman wasn’t ever interesting. He was old and too used to murders, but this one? He might come into this with bright eyes and a clear mind. Despite the fact that he looks like he hasn't slept since Christmas.

It had been a quiet decision. Something that he of course never spoke to anyone about, but it didn’t even roam his mind that much. The thoughts and feelings about it settled quickly into something that could be described as normalcy, without him even trying to justify anything to himself. He already felt justified. At first, he just looked into rapists but found a lot of other sex-criminals along the way. They’re all scum, he thought and once he’d chosen the next man, everything kept setting into place.

The press caught on early. After the second man, a woman called Teresa published a small article, almost just a notice, labeled “The Robin Hood of killers?”

_“A second murder with the same MO as the bottle neck kill six weeks ago has been reported by the NYPD yesterday at six-thirty A.M. It seems like it's about to become a pattern. Two serial rapists murdered in the same way, both white males in their mid-twenties, no witnesses and no concrete evidence at the scenes. Do the New Yorkers have a savior on their hands? A person who makes themself a villain to take out other bad guys? It certainly looks that way. The acts are of course gruesome and illegal, however, the Robin Hood-killer doesn't make it into something it isn't. And just like the real Robin, ours doesn't seem to be easy to catch.”_

It'd been the first press that was actually about _Minho_ and not his killings. He'd gotten so pumped by it that he'd written “RH” by the next body. With the man's own blood and finger and there is no need to tell how much _that_ had blew up the papers. Crazy, is probably the best word, though. There had been pictures of it; Ratman hadn't been able to keep the cameras away and suddenly all the major papers had head lines about “Robin Hood” and his then three murders. Minho followed the articles and news reports as much as he could but there was suddenly so many he had a hard time. From then on, he always signed with the initials. It felt like it might get the message across. Like maybe if he showed that the press understood why he killed, maybe it would get viral enough so that the cops actually took it seriously. He promised himself that he wouldn't be so affected by things people wrote in the future, though. He doesn't know yet that he’ll be even more careless.

The police don't care to make the crowd go away, they simply try to herd them from the scene and keep the press out of the way enough to not take pictures or film anything crucial. Minho usually tries to make some sort of errand in the general area where the happenings of the night before took place, to just _happen_ to see the ruckus and then let curiosity sweep in. He doesn’t know if anyone would notice him if he shows up enough times, but he feels that the chance is pretty slim. For all they know, he could just be an enthusiast that seeks out Robin Hood’s murders and wants to know what happens. Which is the story he will use if the question is ever raised. He tries not to stay for too long and not too close anyway, to not shed any unwanted attention toward himself. He knows it's stupid coming here, to every scene of crime because there is still a risk, but he can't seem to make himself stop.

Even if he isn't  _that_ _type_ of killer.

He slips away when the general amount of people in the crowd gets too small. He takes a cab home after doing the shopping he had supposedly been out to do. He tries to clear his mind but it’s clogged. With the name “Newt” ringing in his ears and the man's pretty face stuck on his mind.

Minho sits by his computer half an hour later. He's cozied himself down in his bed, only the bedside table lamp is on and he’s propped up against the headboard. He types the words “Newt+NYPD” and hopes for the best. The internet is the best thing ever invented and when a couple of _thousands_ of hits are displayed immediately, the first one really is the only one he feels inclined to read. As he swifts through the rest, it looks pretty much like they all have the same general consensus. Scrolling back up, he clicks the top result, a link from a couple of years ago:

**“OUT to get you!”**

“Investigator Newt Parker, first openly gay detective of the New York Police Department,   
closes more cases in his first year than senior detectives have done their whole careers.”

The statement makes Minho nervous. In a few different kinds of ways.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It takes a bit more time to write this than I would want, so thank you if you're keeping with it! It will be continued, I promise, it just might take some time. And there will sooooooon be Newt/Minho interactions, in person. Pinky-promise. 
> 
> Note that this is a flashback, not very far back but still a flashback. There will continue to be some jumping around in time during this fic. I'll make a list in the end if you want to read it all in chronological order. 
> 
> I will update the tags whenever I add a new chapter, there will be sexual content and the story will change rating in later chapters. There will also be Newtmas hanky panky going on in a later chapter, got a prompt from my ever loving [Lovi](http://evilqueenofslytherin.tumblr.com/) who wanted some.
> 
> I highly appreciate feedback and you are also more than welcome to point out spelling or grammatical errors since English isn't my first language.

May 12, 2015.

It's Tuesday morning and Newt doesn't want to do this press conference. He wouldn't have wanted to do it if it would've been yesterday or tomorrow either, but this particular Tuesday can just go fuck itself. He’s feeling… down and he should probably have stayed home. Not sit in a room full of people out to get him, people who wants him to say something off or just slightly up the walls so that they later can twist his words into something they’re not. Of course, he usually doesn’t stay at home at the times it is the most needed, or the other times he probably should either, and this day is not an exception. This time, it’s only him and Alby too. Frypan and Ben are usually with them and can take some of the questions and Newt can be allowed to sit and not say anything for a while. Alby doesn’t want to chime in very often, but Newt hopes that he might rise to the occasion today, since he is the one to send Newt’s saviours away on other business.

Yesterday was the discovery of yet another body and since they haven’t done one of these media happenings for a while, Alby thought it was a great idea. Newt thinks that it fucking sucks, because whenever he has to deal with them, they always ask too many, too invasive or too strange questions for his taste. And they all talk at the same time. Around forty people in the room and they expect the detectives to actually hear what they’re all saying? Sometimes, Alby gets them organized enough for there to be show of hands but they don’t like that. Think that Newt is biased towards women and TV, which he might be if he’s perfectly honest. The women tend to ask better questions and TV can only cut his words, not alter them. It suits him better. But he doesn’t like the whole charade. (He also doesn’t really enjoy these things because everyone always seems like it’s of utter importance to include his sexuality in their pieces and he’s been out since 2011, he just thinks that, since it’s 2015, it shouldn’t have to be such a big deal anymore.)

“As you all may already know, there has now been a thirteenth murder of the serial killer you guys like to call “The Robin Hood”-killer,” Newt says and he can barely hear the words himself for all the flashes going off. The photographers can’t wait till he’s finished speaking. It’s annoying and he hates the way he looks in pictures when he’s talking. When he’s finished the sentence, there is for some reason a murmur. Like they didn’t know and have all run stories this morning.

“The murdered man killed fits the profile. There is nothing unusual. We are currently doing everything we can to-”

“Hasn't it been long enough of this “everything we can”-business?” Newt certainly doesn’t like these kinds of press conferences. Where he isn’t respected what so ever. Teresa has stood up, clearly the reason for the interruption.

“I mean, you alone have been on this case for over a year and made no progress what so ever?”

“I understand that it doesn’t seem like we’re making any progress but there are things about this case that we simply cannot share with the public.”

“Such as?” another reporter asks. Newt forces himself not to sigh. It’s a thing that gets harder and harder not to do for every one of the stupid questions he get. And he gets them _every single press conference._ He just stated that he can’t share them with the public, would that statement change in the span of two seconds? NO, for crying out loud.

“I an not at liberty to say.”

“What detective Parker here is trying to say, is that there are information regarding the case that if it leaks might ruin everything we have worked for this entire investigation.” Newt gives Alby a thankful nod, Alby responds in giving him a stern look. He thinks that Newt should be used to these things by now, know how to sweet talk the press. Newt believes that he will never get used to this. Ever.

“Do you even want to catch him?” a man shoots. Some of the press doesn’t think they should even waste their energy. Teresa doesn’t want them to, it’s been obvious to Newt for as long as he’s known her name. Every time they have these things, somebody accuses them of not doing their best because they’re not getting anywhere. He reckons it’s fair since they really _haven’t_ come anywhere.

“Of course, we want to catch him,” Alby answers when Newt doesn’t say anything.

“Really? Because you might say he’s doing the public a favour,” Teresa argues.

“Robin Hood is really smart,” Newt says before anyone can say anything else. He hasn't planned this and he usually goes about this in a very much more neutral tone but he’s so sick of them trying to _break_ them into saying something that he just might as well give them. This initial statement makes all the journalists shut up for a second. There are no camera flashes as he continues, but he’s sure all the cameras that can record are doing so.

“He’s doing a hell of job, seeing that he doesn’t leave any forensic evidence, no trails, no witnesses, no nothing. He’s constantly keeping us on edge because we don’t know when or where he will strike next but he’s not doing the public any favours. He’s become some sort of anti-hero, you even call him Robin Hood, because he believes, and has gotten you to believe so too, that he’s doing the work that the police have failed to. Which is convict serial rapists and child smugglers and he is right in his rage, these men have clearly done the deeds but haven’t been brought to justice. In some ways, I understand him, I can agree that the judiciary have favoured the rich and privileged and that his intentions are somewhat admirable but he’s taking the law into his own hands. He is murdering people. It is a highly illegal offence and we _are_ doing everything in our power to find, stop and charge him.”

He realises too late that he’s said to much, talked for too long and given the press junkies exactly what they wanted. He hadn’t stopped to think or even paused for a second to reflect on the words coming through his mouth. A dam had just broken and all of a sudden he’d just said whatever, everything, all the things. Doesn’t even know for how long he talked. From the way that the reporters are now practically screaming at him over one another for him to answer their questions and Alby’s death glare, he can rest assure that he shouldn’t have said half of the things he just did.

It’s a disaster. Alby ends the conference as soon as he can afterwards, Newt doesn’t have the time or opportunity to say another word and he thinks that it’s just for the best. Alby calls: “This press conference is officially over!” and pushes people out of the way when he drags Newt out of the room. He scolds Newt for what seems like forever in his office, because that stunt was blatantly stupid and Newt agrees that it was and thinks that it’ll be the end of that, at least for the day. Oh, no. The journalists and cameras doesn’t leave him alone for the entire day. They stay outside his house to get further comments on his “positive reaction” (what the hell do they mean by that, he never said or inclined that was what he felt?) and at the station, his co-workers pretty much doesn’t leave him alone either. They all want to know his true feelings about Robin, like they suddenly are really interested in what Newt thinks. Maybe none of them actually want him found and behind bars. Maybe they all think he actually is Robin Hood.

Newt promptly ignores everyone.

He even manages to ignore himself for quite a while. Not picking up his thoughts over the serial murderer matter other than trying to work on the case, not reading or watching anything he’s quoted or featured in (especially not Teresa’s piece which is called “Maybe the NYPD finally gets it?”) and absolutely does not think about the fact that he might have been on to something when ranting to the press. There is no way he should manage but he does; he completely shuts his mind off of it.

It isn’t until three days later when he finally allows himself to touch the thoughts again. He lays in his bed, with his phone over his face and with an article about himself, one where he’s quoted _right_ for once,and he reads his words over and over and he realises that he maybe thinks Robin Hood is doing something good.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to make a statement. A statement back. Back to Newt, to somehow say that he’s heard him and is happy that Newt has got his mind in the right place but he finds it near impossible to come up with any type of way to do it that won’t end with him leaving any type of trails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OAKY I KNOW THIS TAKES A LOT OF TIME AND I HAVE NO IDEA ABOUT THE QUALITY, BUT HERE IS THE NEXT CHAPTER AND I CAN SAY NOW THAT THEY WILL FINALLY MEEEEEET IN THE NEXT ONE! 
> 
> Note that this is a flashback, not very far back but still a flashback. There will continue to be some jumping around in time during this fic. I'll make a list in the end if you want to read it all in chronological order. 
> 
> I will update the tags whenever I add a new chapter, there will be sexual content and the story will change rating in later chapters. There will also be Newtmas hanky panky going on in a later chapter, got a prompt from my ever loving [Lovi](http://evilqueenofslytherin.tumblr.com/) who wanted some.
> 
> I highly appreciate feedback and you are also more than welcome to point out spelling or grammatical errors since English isn't my first language.

May 13, 2015.

Minho watches the whole thing on the telly. He stares at Newt’s mouth for half of it and pretty much misses every second word that comes out of it. It’s not his finest moment, but that man is _fine_. He does get the important parts, though, the ones where Newt confesses that he thinks that the justice system is faulty, that he thinks that Minho is smart and that he also think that his actions are admirable. It makes him almost jump up and down in his seat, because finally someone actually understands him in the police department. Thankfully it’s also Newt. Minho watches to the very end of the live stream, when Newt is being escorted out by a man that must be his boss. Minho has seen him in Ratman’s press conferences too. Newt looks pretty much terrified, Minho suspects then that this wasn’t some sort of publicity stunt or actually planned out confession. It had been a spur of the moment thing and it only makes Minho feel even better about it.

He wants to make a statement. A statement _back_. Back to Newt, to somehow say that he’s heard him and is happy that Newt has got his mind in the right place but he finds it near impossible to come up with any type of way to do it that won’t end with him leaving any type of trail. He can’t go to the papers, he can’t post something online, he can’t call, he can’t even write. There are just too many factors that have to be in place and too many things he can do wrong. It’s easier to kill than it is sending the police a message, which in itself should be a pretty weird thing. But the kills are more… impersonal, clinical in some ways even. There is a man, there is a bottle from which the man has drunk and then there isn’t much else. It’s a quiet type of thing. A letter, would mean paper and ink and possibly other particles that could be traced to Minho, a phone call would mean a location, a voice and anything he said would be analyzed in a way not even Minho can predict.

So he doesn’t do anything for a few days. Just keeps up the research he has on his next mark, and tries to live normally, just like he always does. It’s a surprisingly easy thing to do. Ever since the beginning, he’s been a bit shocked by his on lack of empathy towards his… _victims_ (not that he likes calling them that, they’re no victims but in lack of better words). Since he has a lot of empathy in other places, he’s very good at putting himself in other's shoes and he always has been one for crying to sad movies, when it comes to people he’s actually killed, the feeling doesn’t even try to knock on his door. He can just disconnect somehow.

He lives in a comfortable apartment on the second floor, he has a small balcony and a large tub and a washing machine that acts up and he goes to work every weekday, like anybody else. He buys his groceries and cooks his meals and smokes too much and he cleans his flat, just like anybody else. His life is nowhere near what he would’ve thought it would be, that day after he’d killed Connor. He thought it would be a life on the road, or of hiding, only eating take out or bad diner food or energy bars and never sleeping in the same bed twice. The realisation that everything didn’t always turn out as he thought it would, came somewhere along the very trivial gesture of washing one's socks. Just putting dirty socks in the machine and he had realised at the same time that this was still his life. That he wasn’t some sort of fugitive that lived in the same clothes for weeks and washed them in sinks, no, he was Minho, living in a two-room apartment, cleaning his dishes and washing his fucking socks. It wasn’t grand and that was what made the whole ordeal a bit alarming. That if he can live like a normal human being and at the same time kill people, that deserves it, yes, but nonetheless, how many other people are currently doing the same thing?

There had been a time when Minho had been a naive soul. It’d been before college, it had been before he knew about social justice matters, it had been before his first heads-on encounter with racism, it had been before he’d realised that calling his friends gay when they were acting feminine hurt himself. When he got around to college, there had been too many eye openers for him to really come out of the same boy who believed the world wasn’t a cruel place. It had happened a lot, to say the least, since then.

The first one was when Harriet was raped and he had to face her rapist on the school grounds. He’d felt so sick he’d hurled in a litter bin. This man could walk around outside, like he hadn’t just destroyed a girls life. There wasn’t anything he could say to Harriet when she announced that she would leave, there was nothing he could say. The guy wasn’t expelled from their college, and Harriet was scared to unlock the door. What was there for her to do? It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t anywhere near what Minho had wished for, but it was in the end, the only thing Harriet could do to battle her demons. To leave them behind. To leave her perpetrator behind.

The things that he does now, the killing, is for her. It is for every girl and boy that has ever been victimized by these men who thought themselves entitled to other people's bodies. It’s for the ones who have kept silent, it’s for those who have raised their voice, it’s for those who never have gotten justice. It might be over the top and way out of line, but there have already been lines crossed, who is to say that what they’ve already done isn’t in the same league as being killed for?

Minho chooses. Every time he picks a person, he picks them apart first. He looks into every single detail of their life that he can find, the charges, the verdicts, their money income, their lawyers, their families, their childhoods, their victims. And he chooses whether they can live or die. It is too much power for his own good but for the moment he hasn't gotten in over his head, he has just killed people that have destroyed many lives, he’s trying to make every kill as significant as he can. Sometimes, that is hard. Because when the rapist of one of his friends shows up as a potential candidate, there is not enough research, there is just pure vengeance. He’s guilty alright, never convicted, but the fact remains that this man, the man his currently watching, isn’t really what Minho would call “top priority”. He’s personal. And still, Minho doesn’t hesitate when the opportunity presents itself. When the sap of a man, you know, bares his throat invitingly and doesn’t seem to mind having it pierced by glass.

The idea hits him at the same time as he’s pushing the bottle into the man’s neck.

That this is the time for leaving a message, this is the only time he actually “interacts” with the force, with the public, with _Newt_ , is with his “RH”. This is the only time he tells anyone anything without having to do something more than he usually does. And he did promise himself to never do anything because of the media or publicity. But he’s already fucking this up by making it a really personal kill so why the hell not just make this case a bit off track from what usually happens.

It’s a risk, because the more time he spends here, the more likely is it that he will be noticed. But he can’t keep himself. It really is now, or not at all. He takes the man’s right index finger, dips it in the blood that has run over his neck and writes the initials on the ground. He repeats the dipping and proceeds to write “NEWT” as quickly as he can, just underneath the first two letters. It’s absolutely no masterpiece, but you can clearly see what is spelled. Exhilarated with the addition, he leaves the scene with steps too quick and heart rate too high. It’s going to be even harder to stay away from Newt now, and he’s slipped up twice already.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM HAVING SUCH A HARD TIME WITH THIS STORY ATM. PLS DON'T FLAME THA STORY. 
> 
> Note that this is a flashback, not very far back but still a flashback. There will continue to be some jumping around in time during this fic. I'll make a list in the end if you want to read it all in chronological order.
> 
> I will update the tags whenever I add a new chapter, there will be sexual content and the story will change rating in later chapters. There will also be Newtmas hanky panky going on in a later chapter. (Of course Minewt too, afterwards.)
> 
> I highly appreciate feedback and you are also more than welcome to point out spelling or grammatical errors since English isn't my first language.

April 25, 2015.

 _Anywhere_ maybe isn't the best or the cheapest or the cleanest gay bar in East Village but it draws a crowd that Newt most often feels highly comfortable around. There are both the quiet and the loud, the extravagant and the minimal. It's also close to his home which makes it easy for him to slip out if it gets too much for him. The dance floor is full most weekends but somehow you're still able to sit by the bar and booths and hold conversations. He goes at times, when the workload isn't too heavy, when he feels like being around people and when he's not too tired. To be honest, it's not very often. Even rarer is that he brings someone home with him.

Newt keeps to the people he knows, his friends and acquaintances, so it isn't like he even _tries_ to seek out company. He usually sticks to Thomas anyway. Despite being tempted to ask someone else. Thomas is predictable but a simple relief, which usually is everything he needs.

Aris has dragged him out now. For once, they sit by the bar and not safely in a booth but Newt feels pretty okay anyway. There aren't too many people even if it's Saturday and Aris is soft and calm which makes Newt feel the same. It feels good enough, so that when Aris is dragged away to the dance floor by a particularly eager man, Newt's pulse doesn’t even start to rise. It’s a good day for some reason. He urges his friends on and finally Aris allows himself to leave.

“Ehm, hi.” The guy is hot. Newt admits. Dark haired and tall and _Jesus_ , those arms. That smile. His jawline too. But he looks a bit lost and flustered. He has simply strode up to stands beside Newt and leaning slightly on the bar top. Casually, but not really looking like he feels casual. Newt fires off a smile.

“Hey you,” he says and for some reason he suddenly feels like he's too old. Not even turned thirty yet, the guy in front of him not much younger than himself and still there is a feeling of being way too old for this man. Maybe it’s just the twitch in his hands which Newt interprets as him being unsure, maybe recently come out, and Newt has been out long enough for it to be a foreign concept of not being out. His mind is older than he’s soul and his face is younger than his body. It’s not a very good combination.

“You’re new to here?” Newt asks anyway. The guy mostly just stares at Newt for a while. Without answering. It’s not uncomfortable, Newt holds his gaze without looking away, but it’s definitely weird. When Newt is about to say something more he finally opens his mouth again.

“I’m sorry, I just got really... nervous for a second,” Hot Stuff says, and laughs, _nervously_. “I hope you don’t bite?”

“Only if that’s what you’re into.” He can’t believe he just said that out loud. He wants to close his eyes, wince and never talk to a stranger again. It’s not like he’s the best flirter in the world, but he thought he had a bit better game than that.

“Mind if I sit?” The man asks and Newt looks up. Realises that the guy not only smirks at the joke but also feels like it was good enough to keep the conversation going. Newt just waves a hand in a “be my guest”-gesture. And so he’s accompanied by a stranger for the first time in what feels like forever. A guy that is nervous because of him. The thought seems far away, he doesn’t think that anyone has been other than confident around him before since Newt usually is the one who feels like the world is out to bite him.

“Is that what you’re into?” Hot Stuff asks and Newt huffs a laugh without answering. It pretty much is, though. The kind of confident men who isn’t afraid of what they want, plays it a bit rough around the edges and can give _anything_. The guy beside him doesn’t really fit the category very well. He feels like he doesn’t know what he’s doing, he even admitted to being anxious. It isn’t really what Newt needs, more anxiety in the mix. For the sake of not being impolite (and for the fact that the boy is really fucking good looking) he doesn’t make an excuse to leave. Good days doesn’t come often, good enough men doesn’t come very often either.

There is actual conversation following. Sure, the guy flirts a heavy amount but he also asks questions that he seems to want to know the answer to. It's flowing well enough so that all of a sudden Newt finds himself immensely closer go the man, touching him even (only a few fingers over knuckles but still) and he doesn't feel in the slightest like he wants to run. The feeling usually suffices somewhere around when people he doesn't know get into his personal space and people he does know entering his intimate space. Right now, everything seems easy.

“What should I call you?”

“Newt. And that is my real name, by the way.”

“Like the lizard-thingies?”

“The same name, yes. The same origin? Hm, that would be way funnier, but unfortunately, no. It's from Sir Isaac Newton,” Newt explains.

“I like it. It sounds like a name you really can use, you know? _Newt._ ” He says it only once, sultry and slow and _deep_ somehow, too sexy for what Newt’s name normally can handle. But when _he_ says it, it works. So damn well and Newt decidedly doesn't blush. Suddenly his name feels like such an intimate thing, and he doesn't even mind sharing it.

“What's yours?” And the guy just smirks.

“Common, let me keep some mystery.” They laugh and Newt doesn't really care. He should figure out a better name in his head other than "Hot Stuff" though because he will use it otherwise. They keep talking, fingers brushing and Newt realises that he really fucking likes it. The way that they shoot sarcasm and irony between them at the same time as everything feel honest and light and fun. They guy has a sort of fire in him that Newt doesn’t see very often at the station, the fire of someone believing in something better. It’s a nice change. Hot Stuff suddenly pulls up his phone and checks it, face turning rather disappointed.

“I… I need to go,” he says and looks up at Newt. Newt doesn’t say “oh” just as disappointed as the other man looks. Because he’s not that desperate.

“Okay,” he says instead, nodding and sipping at his drink. “It was nice chatting with you.” He withdraws his hand and leans back as casually as he manages.

“Definitely.” Pause. Then Hot Stuff leans over and lightly kisses Newt’s cheek, for which Newt actually flinches and then blushes a deep red colour.

“Sorry,” Hot Stuff excuses himself when he pulls back immediately.

“Don’t be, I’m just stupid.” Newt wants to disappear to the other side of the earth. Scared by a kiss on the cheek, really? It takes him too long to realise that the pounding his heart is doing isn’t because of crippling anxiety. It’s excitement. And when he figures it out, Hot Stuff is already long gone.

“You want to get out of here?” Aris slides up and asks at the same time and Newt just nods. To anyone else, that might sound like an invitation; to them it’s just a ride home and parting ways without as much as a kiss. They really don’t have that kind of relationship. He makes himself not look around the room for a final glimpse of Hot Stuff. He’s both disappointed that it didn’t lead anywhere and at the same time glad that it didn’t. If he is right, the guy doesn’t have a lot of experience and Newt is a bad teacher and never in the slightest mood to be one. The disappointment overpowers the other thoughts, though.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minho had been eighteen the first time he’d gotten into a gay club and he’d kissed his first boy in less than thirty minutes. He was new and exciting which had made him a target for the most extreme flirting and dancing and grinding he’d ever experienced. It’d been heaven. The first ten-fifteen minutes had swooshed passed him so fast he had no memory of what actually had happened but he’d also soon realised that he could practically choose whoever he wanted. In the end, there had been a lot of kisses going around. A lot of flirting. A shitton of sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so the next chapter is already written, so it will not be too long till then! 
> 
> Note that this is a flashback, not very far back but still a flashback. There will continue to be some jumping around in time during this fic. I'll make a list in the end if you want to read it all in chronological order.
> 
> I will update the tags whenever I add a new chapter, there will be sexual content and the story will change rating in later chapters. There will also be Newtmas hanky panky going on in the next later chapter. (Of course Minewt too, afterwards. In chapter 11.)
> 
> I highly appreciate feedback and you are also more than welcome to point out spelling or grammatical errors since English isn't my first language.

May 13, 2015.

Minho had been eighteen the first time he’d gotten into a gay club and he’d kissed his first boy in less than thirty minutes. He was new and exciting which had made him a target for the most extreme flirting and dancing and grinding he’d ever experienced. It’d been _heaven_. The first ten-fifteen minutes had swooshed passed him so fast he had no memory of what actually had happened but he’d also soon realised that he could practically _choose_ whoever he wanted. In the end, there had been a lot of kisses going around. A lot of flirting. A shitton of sex.

He’d picked up peoples habits regarding flirting. In his mind, it boils down to three categories: the “Shy”, the “Heads on” and the “Cheeky”. The “Shy” are the guys who come up to you and sit beside you at the bar, asks for your name first and usually blushes and laughs much. The ones who asks for your number rather than your address. The “Heads on” guys are the ones who either grinds you on the dance floor before you’ve even seen their face, asks you if you should get out of there as an opener or kisses you as a way of introduction. The ones who you sleep with because they’re hot and not because they have anything behind their foreheads. The “Cheeky” ones come with stupid grins and terrible pickup lines and usually give you a nickname in the style of “baby” or “Pretty Boy”. The ones who get into your pants because they talk their way into them, in a very consensual manner. There can be a combination of two of them, too. Minho learned how to flirt by getting flirted with and made himself comfortable in the role as one of the “Cheeky” ones.

When he actually made his way to Newt (after watching him from afar for hours) that first night, he’d found himself unable to get into his usual style. The “Shy” in him, the persona he’d almost never been, had crept up and strangled his throat so he couldn’t speak and his veins so his face had turned red. Newt had seemed very… divided by his approach. At the same time as they conversed (a conversation where Minho tried to ask such questions where it wouldn’t be blatantly obvious that he already knew the answer) and touched (!), there hadn’t been too much resistance when Minho had pretended to be needing to leave. The only reason he’d done that was because he probably would’ve kissed Newt soon otherwise and that just couldn’t happen. The phrase “keep business and pleasure separately” somehow fit the situation perfectly but Minho had a hard time holding himself to one when he wanted them so badly to mix. It was bad enough that he’d walked up to him, talked to him, flirted with him. To kiss him, to take him home, to _fuck_ him, would be a disaster.

None of it stops him now from walking up to Newt, two weeks later when he’s just entered _Anywhere_. _Bad idea_ , he tells himself as he sweeps up to Newt and actually isn’t _that_ awkward this time.

“Newt,” Minho says.

“Mysterious… guy…” is the reply and they both smile in a “what the fuck, man?”-sort of way.

“It’s your fault, you haven’t told me your name,” Newt tries to defend himself, Minho just shakes his head and takes his hand.

“Dance with me?” And the blond man looks surprised for a moment, hesitant for the next and then he nods.

Dance, they do. Minho can see that Newt isn’t the most comfortable in the middle of all the people (where Minho has dragged them because that usually where _he_ is) and have them move to the outskirts of the crowd without making a big deal out of it. He captures the other man and squares him in his arms, making a barrier between Newt and the rest of the word, Minho being the only one to touch him, to take his attention. It works and the twitches in Newt’s gaze severely decreases. The look is aimed for only Minho and Minho can’t take his eyes off of Newt. _Bad idea,_ his mind tells him. _The best idea I’ve ever had,_ he tells his mind.

He can't stop himself from touching. One arm always keeping the other man close, the other roaming over his back, his hair, his neck, his side, his ass. When he’s shooting up his brows in the question “this okay?”, Newt’s smile grows toothy and he presses Minho closer, gives him a nod. Minho is convinced Newt is going to kiss him, but their lips don't meet. They only move together, move to the music. He feels like he's in a new production of “Dirty Dancing” and wishes that the movie will never end.

By a miracle, there's no kissing. Even though they both are hard in their pants (Minho thanks the Lord for dancing that involves full body contact) and lust has started to show around the edges of Newt’s eyes, Newt doesn't make a move. And Minho can't kiss him. So far everything he has done has been fairly innocent but if there would be making out, Minho wouldn't ever want to stop and _fuck. Even this is not good,_ he thinks as Newt drags him off the dance floor, complaining about being tired and needing a drink. They end up in a booth, Newt by the wall and Minho next to him and it's really surprising how much less the music is audible. He's distracted when Newt absently starts playing with the straw from his drink with his tongue. Minho puts his head in his hand and leans over slightly.

“What's your favourite song?” he asks and Newt giggles a little.

“Big girls cry by Sia. It’s not the most upbeat one, but I like it anyway.”

“Never heard.” Newt tells him he should listen to it sometime. Minho most definitely will. Anything for this man. Okay, maybe not _everything_ but there are enough things so that the things he wouldn't don't even matter.

“Did you vote for Obama?” Newt asks and Minho laughs like it's the best joke he's ever heard.

“You really think I'd vote for that other dipshit?” he asks through a few tears and Newt just rolls his eyes and smiles. Such a smile that is hard to resist.

“Did you know that two thirds of the world's trash could be recycled if everyone just started giving a shit?”

“Is that so?”

“I seriously have no idea, I'm just trying to distract myself from your mouth,” Minho answers as he stares at Newt’s lips. Grinning lips.

“You're a bit wonky, you know that? Huh, Mysterious Guy?”

“You like it.”

“Oh, I _love_ it.” And with that Minho realises that he's found the first guy ever that is literally a combination of all three flirting-types. He doesn't really fit any of them but he doesn't _not_ fit them either. He’s bold, without being reckless, flirty but also very down to earth, he’s… _perfect_. Minho thinks that he should just lean forward, he just capture those lips with his own, he should kiss them plump and- When they’re thoroughly interrupted, Minho wishes with all his heart that he would’ve been just a tiny bit faster. That he wouldn’t have thought, just done.

“I can’t find Aris,” the newcomer on the other side of the table says and Newt clears his throat as Minho scoots a bit away before he can make himself stop. The guy, which is someone Minho has never seen before, but Newt seems not to be bothered by his presence. Minho slips out of the booth.

“I should-” he says but Newt interrupts, hand stretched out to grab at Minho but he’s too far away.

“No, stay, it’s probably nothing. Aris just usually is very… available.” Minho shakes his head and takes a step away, towards the dance floor again.

“See you around, _Newt_ ,” he says and turns, prancing himself into the crowd before he can think twice of it. _It’s better this way,_ his brain says. _You should just shut the fuck up,_ he tells his brain. Because if they hadn’t been interrupted, Minho would’ve kissed him. He would’ve tongue fucked Newt's mouth to the other side of this world if he had started. Minho makes his way through the people, doesn’t stop to dance, doesn’t stop to linger by someone else, doesn’t turn back because if he does, he’ll just end up right by Newt again. And this time, he won’t be able to hold himself back. Maybe his brain was a tiny bit right. It was good that he hadn’t. But the bad parts of it all would’ve been weighed up so many times over, just being near Newt made him feel so alive tonight, even if it hadn't been for very long. He leaves. Lets the night air fill his lungs and wishes that it was Newt’s breath he was tasting right now.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He saw Hot Stuff again at the bar yesterday. He hadn’t come up this time and Newt had found himself being disappointed by that fact. But maybe he hadn’t seen Newt or something. Maybe Newt had just imagined their connection even. Newt hadn’t walked up to him either. Something in him had stopped him, for reasons he couldn’t even figure out himself. He just felt inexplicitly scared at the thought and felt pathetic. The guy had only shown an interest in Newt, he hadn’t ever promised him anything.
> 
> To drown his thoughts, he calls Thomas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this got out really fast and the next one won't just so you know hahha
> 
> There will continue to be some jumping around in time during this fic. I'll make a list in the end if you want to read it all in chronological order.
> 
> I highly appreciate feedback and you are also more than welcome to point out spelling or grammatical errors since English isn't my first language.

May 24, 2015.

He saw Hot Stuff again at the bar yesterday. He hadn’t come up this time and Newt had found himself being disappointed by that fact. But maybe he hadn’t seen Newt or something. Maybe Newt had just imagined their connection even. Newt hadn’t walked up to him either. Something in him had stopped him, for reasons he couldn’t even figure out himself. He just felt inexplicitly scared at the thought and felt pathetic. The guy had only shown an interest in Newt, he hadn’t ever promised him anything.

To drown his thoughts, he calls Thomas.

And Thomas invites him over. Newt second guesses his choice even before he leaves his apartment. About fourteen times, because he isn’t really sure he wants to hook up and that is inevitably what’s going to happen if he goes over. He thinks he might need to talk to someone. Then again, he’s not really into talking so he decides that fucking with Thomas is probably the best idea of this Sunday anyway. As he expects, it is kissing and undressing him that Thomas does as soon as he’s inside the door. He doesn’t comment on the dark circles under Newt’s eyes or the tremor in his steps and doesn’t seem to be bothered by them either. He rubs up against Newt, making it clear he’s already hardening in his jeans and Newt lets himself groan slightly.

Since Thomas got comfortable with himself and Newt made the fact certain that he wasn’t going to fall in love with him because _he hadn’t_ (they had seen each other for two years, Newt figured it would’ve happened if it ever would), he’d been very easy in his way of having sex. At first, he really hadn’t been.

Thomas gets them, single handily, out of their clothes and onto the bed before Newt has a chance to protest, but at this time, he’s also hard and doesn’t want to protest. He _finally_ makes himself participates and grabs at Thomas’s waist, pulling him closer and kisses him deeper. The brunette man responds with a sigh like he’s been waiting for Newt to snap into reality. It’s almost a bit scary, both that they went this far before Newt actually did come back and that Thomas went this far _knowing_ Newt wasn’t really there. He doesn’t have much time to reflect, because there are soon fingers working him open and hot pants in his ear that he matches pretty good with a fist around Thomas’s cock and small moans over his smooth skin. It’s quick and a bit too soon for Newt’s taste when Thomas flips him over, eyes burning with lust, but he doesn’t complain. There won’t be much uncomfortness, he just sometimes feel like the build-up could be better, that’s all.

There is quite a bit of pain though. Thomas takes it slow but Newt tenses all the time and it takes way longer than Newt would’ve liked until they’re at a pace and place that feels good for the both of them. Soothing hands on his back doesn’t help and him trying not to think about how this is supposed to be and feeling like he’s just messing it up for the both of them doesn’t either. When he’s finally relaxed enough for it to be good, Thomas still goes slow and he’s glad because it’s a small gesture to show that he doesn’t mind. That it’s okay, even if Newt suspects that Thomas really wants to just fuck him into the mattress already.

“Faster,” Newt groans, pushes back and Thomas complies without further hesitation. Then it’s all over, come and done, too fast. Thomas comes first and jerks Newt until he does too, with Thomas still inside him. Newt feels almost... disappointed. The distraction isn’t even a distraction because it took him too long to relax. He falls down on the bed on his back after he’s cleaned up, Thomas follows right after and starts to fiddle with Newt’s chest hair.

“You still don’t seem fully present,” Thomas says then. Newt wants to leave. He mumbles something incoherent and shrugs. Thomas cuddles up to him, splays a hand over his chest and breathes out.

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.” He is leaving. He fucks Thomas to avoid these kinds of conversations. That had been the reason he’d actually decided to come here in the first place. He must really be acting strange if Thomas wants to talk about _feelings_ and stuff.

“Oh, common now Newt,” Thomas says and sits up when Newt scoots away and throws his legs over the edge of the bed, “don't be a runner.”

Newt snaps his head towards the other man and scoffs.

“Cocky coming from someone who ran every time afterwards in the first year.” They'd bumped ways in Newt’s first year at the department, when he was only twenty-two and everything was new and exciting. Their paths had crossed in the elevator downstairs and Newt had liked his face enough to start up a conversation. He was already out and had been seeing a few people before, but as it turned out, Thomas hadn’t even really thought about guys before Newt, despite the fact that he was as close to thirty as Newt was twenty.

“Cut me some slack, I wasn't out and I was scared.” No time had passed until he’d definitely thought about Newt though, and they’d begun this weird type of fuck-buddy relationship. Thomas had taken his time with figuring out his feelings. Newt had been sure he himself was gay through and through since he was fifteen and never questioned that so he didn’t understand really what Thomas went through but he tried to be as supportive as he could. Since Newt never actually wanted to be in a relationship with the other man, he hadn’t been disappointed when Thomas had announced after almost two years that he was bisexual, but not biromantic. Newt was happy Thomas had found himself. He doesn’t have the energy to be patient or understanding at the moment.

“Scared? Of what? The whole NYPD kicking in my front door and seeing you here in your underpants? Or worse, _without_ your underpants?” He even makes his voice sound funny. Or, supposedly funny. Thomas rolls his eyes but looks a little hurt.

“Stop it,” he says and Newt feels a tiny bit bad. “I just wanted you to lay here with me for awhile. Cuddle or whatever.” Thomas isn’t even that much of a cuddler. Newt really must be acting out of normal.

“I bet you say that to all the boys,” Newt mutters.

“And girls,” he adds after a second.

“You know, I don't sleep with _that_ many people.“ That might be true, but he sleeps with _enough_ people for it to be a _thing._ Newt can count everyone _he_ has slept with in this twenties on one hand. Newt doesn’t think both his hands and both of Thomas’s are enough to count all of Thomas’s partners in the last _year._

“Sure you don't.”

“Why are you being so hostile? Do you not want me to see other people because I clearly remember that you promised-” That is not the reason. He just feels pretty sick of being afraid to go out of his comfort zone. He sighs and decides to stop Thomas before he get’s his panties in a twist.

“No, it's not that.” And now the guilt is blooming because Thomas haven’t actually done anything and here Newt is, acting like a jerk.

“I'm sorry,” he says, “I just need to go, okay?” Thomas crawls over the bed and puts a hand on Newt’s wrist after Newt has gotten his pants back on. He looks at Newt intently, like he wants to ask more. Newt doesn’t want to tell him anything else.

“Please, Tommy, I'm stressed out over the case that's all,” he tries to reassure. He takes Thomas hand and squeezes it.

“Newt, you've always been stressed out, you always take work home with you even when it's only in your mind. But you're actually avoiding me and now you're running after we've barely just finished.” Thomas looks at their hand for a moment but doesn’t let go. Thomas has a different relationship to touches than Newt does, but they usually make it work. Holding hands though, is a thing that Newt likes (even if he’s not in love with Thomas) and Thomas doesn’t. It’s a way of grounding himself; Thomas knows.

“Be honest with me, do you want to stop this? Have you met someone or something?” _Yes_ , he thinks even though it's stupid. Because maybe he's _met_ someone if you’re marking words but it isn't like he's in love with said someone and it isn't like they've gone out or anything like that. They've met twice and Newt watched him from afar yesterday. It's nothing. He’s just wound up about the case. He’s just tired. He’s just annoyed by himself that he doesn’t have the guts to bring someone else than Tommy home. And maybe that is a certain someone but it doesn’t matter.

“No,” he says flatly. “It’s nothing.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He only becomes slightly obsessed. After the whole “I wrote his name in blood because I thought it might be a good way to grab his attention on a “professional level”, there haven’t been a single time when Newt has gone out that Minho haven’t already been there. It's not like he can help it, Newt always comes to Anywhere when he goes out and Minho just so happens to stop going anywhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay two quick chapters now actually. But then it's back to slow again. 
> 
> It'll actually be very chronological from now on whoop!
> 
> I highly appreciate feedback and you are also more than welcome to point out spelling or grammatical errors since English isn't my first language.

June 10, 2015.

He only becomes _slightly_ obsessed. After the whole “I wrote his name in blood because I thought it might be a good way to grab his attention on a “professional level”, there hasn't been a single time when Newt has gone out that Minho haven’t already been there. It's not like he can help it, Newt always comes to _Anywhere_ when he goes out and Minho just so _happens_ to stop going anywhere else. So they bump ways a few times over the following month, no biggie. Sometimes Minho knows he's too drunk (when Newt finally arrives) to walk up without ending things in a bad way so those times he pretends that he doesn't know Newt’s there and if Newt makes his way over, Minho casually (but with every ounce of self control he can muster) slips away and goes home. When he's only have had a few drinks though. The times he's completely sober. _Those_ nights. They talk, they dance, they flirt, they touch. Minho is careful not to go too far again, that he'd been averted the first time around had just been luck.

He wonders sometimes what Newt thinks about the whole ordeal. Because how many guys have ever done like Minho’s doing at the moment? Okay, for being a tease, but in normal cases, this would be ridiculous. But it isn't like Newt seems to believe there will be anymore going on. He doesn’t ever try to kiss Minho either. Minho wonders why, because there are definitely more than just “let’s be friends” going on; they’re fucking grinding on the dance floor more often than not and if Newt had been just about anybody else, Minho would’ve either fucked him or let him loose a long while ago. With Newt, things aren’t as they usually are. It’s so easy and it’s so bloody hard at the same time and Minho sometimes just wishes that he’d never made contact. Wishes that he’d just watched _Inspector Parker_ do his thing, hoping that he didn’t leave any trace this time either, instead of searching the net for any piece of information he can possibly find about him (he might have only read that one article the first time he googled Newt but a lot of things have changed since then and it’s amazing how being queer and open about it can be considered news in this godforsaken country) and being a cock tease every chance he finds possible.

One night when Newt laughs at something that Minho says, he gets the sudden rush of “this guy doesn’t even like me”-feelings. That he’s only some guy to Newt, that he that dances with and is fun to hang around at times, which if true, Minho only has to suit himself because that is what he’s been _doing_ really. Even if he wants so much, he doesn’t give enough. He doesn’t let himself give more and maybe Newt has just found himself in that. Newt maybe just wants him as a friends. He feels like the _smiles_ he gets from Newt maybe only are smiles. He feels crushed and can’t even manage to hide it.

“You alright, mate? Newt asks and puts a had on Minho’s back and it doesn’t make him feel any better. He shrugs and says that he’s only tired.

Minho does notice that night that Newt doesn’t goes home with someone though. And he realises with a stark that Newt hasn’t ever done that. At least not since Minho’s gotten the update that Aris is just friend and that other bloke Whatshisname is too. It isn’t like Newt is ugly or anything, he’s the twinkiest twink there is and far too many guys than what Minho wants to think about would gladly back _that_ up against a wall. If Newt would make himself a bit more accessible of course. Because he’s not really easy to grab unless he wants to be grabbed. After that thought crosses his mind, Minho just relishes in the fact that he’s allowed to grab however much he wants and smirks to himself. Thoughts about Newt not being interested out the door again.

Minho _is_ being way more careful nowadays. He hasn’t slowed down, not really, but he tries not to kill just for the sake of “killing people who deserves it”, either. He puts more effort into research. Tries to find the right people to end, tries to make things… easier. For the force, for Newt. He doesn’t dwell over the fact that this man has taken over his life completely and Minho hasn’t even revealed his name to him yet. In the beginning, it’d just been a party trick, “get the guy interested because he can’t have it all”-sort of thing. After not sleeping with him for two months, that might be a little too much of “can’t have it all” but the name has really only come up twice and the second time, Minho had just spun it like a joke instead. It isn’t like Newt would know that Minho is Robin Hood if Minho would say that his name is in fact Minho (not “Hot Stuff” as Newt has taken to use), but as things between them have… not really gotten _serious_ , but progressed at least, the act of revealing his name have also gotten somewhat strange. They pretty much know each other now, Newt not the part where Minho occasionally gets rid of rapists and Minho not exactly knowing a lot about Newt’s work (from Newt at least), but there have been so much else exchanged. It is _almost_ as if they are dating.

Also an aspect that Minho have been dipping into a lot lately, to just pop the question over Newt’s martini; “So, you should totally go on a proper date with me” but all he’s ever gotten out has been: “So you should totally come dance with me”. Slight difference, that makes all the difference. This time, when he’s just said the second option once again, Newt takes his hand and drags him away, without answering, but grin big on his face.

They’re not far in, like usual, and that’s when the last song for the nights starts playing. It’s a slow one, _Anywhere_ has made a habit for making the last song a slow dance. It’s “Purple Rain” Minho realises after a few beats. Its cheesy as fuck and Newt turns his gaze towards Minho, asking with a slight raise of brows if maybe they should stay for this song too? Minho pulls him in closer and rests his temple to Newt’s forehead. No hesitation. Walks him slowly through the song because there isn’t anything else to do in this case. Once again, it’s almost like they’re dating, and this is the end of the date. Once again it’s almost like they’re too shy to kiss rather than anything else. Like they’re in middle school and kissing is gross even if you wanna try it out because it’s supposedly also very nice.

They dance through the whole song, even when people are beginning to move around the last half minute. It’s easy in a way that Minho has never felt. It’s hard in another way because he shouldn’t have this really. He’s been feeling like he’s in over his head a lot lately. When, _if_ he corrects himself, if he’s ever exposed as Robin Hood, things will probably turn ugly. Newt might get hurt in the process. And for every step he takes, he’s falling deeper and deeper into the warm depths of _love_.

They part a few seconds after the last tune has died out as the dim lights are working their way up to become bright. For a brief second, they just stand there. Close, but not close enough, looking in to each others eyes. Newt’s eyes are searching Minho’s face and Minho wants to scream yes, yes, please, but he doesn’t even know what he’s approving. He doesn’t care. He’d say yes to anything at this point. _Will you drive me to the dentist next week?_ Yes. _Will you take out my trash for a year?_ Yes. _Will you love me for the rest of our lives? Yes._ Somehow he manages to convey some of it on his face because suddenly there’s a small, playful and blushing smile in the corner of Newt’s mouth. Minho’s heart swells. It’s not just to him that this was something totally different from what he’d expected, at least that’s what he can read off of Newt’s expression. _It’s not just him_. It’s not just in his head. _They_ are actually more than… more than Minho would’ve ever hoped. Yet…

“Good night, Hot Stuff,” Newt finally says.

“Good night, _Newt_.” And with that they sort of just fall apart, get caught by different streams of people, their gazes locked for as long as they can and Minho have never wished so bad that he could have Newt all for himself.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s sleep deprived, his leg is killing him and he’s going to shag the hot Asian guy from the bar tonight. Three facts of today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, we're past the half way mark! OH YEAH! Now it's going to be slow af, just so you know.  
> This is what you've all been waiting for. Hehehe.
> 
> I highly appreciate feedback and you are also more than welcome to point out spelling or grammatical errors since English isn't my first language.

July 3, 2015.

“There are basically millions of people in New York you can fuck and you simply needed to fuck _her_ ?” He stares at Thomas who scratches the back of his head and looks away. _And I keep fucking you?_ Newt thinks to himself. _Unbelievable._ Because really, why the fuck does he do that? There are tons of people he could go to bed with, it’s not like Thomas is all that convinient even, they work together, and Newt does actually know which one of all of the people that he really _wants._ It sure as hell isn’t Thomas.

Newt is pissed. Thomas makes it his life’s mission to screw with Newt, figurally speaking, by doing it literally with the most pro-Robin journalist there is, the freaking _namer_ of the Robin Hood killer. Teresa Agnes. The few secret clues they have had about Robin Hood have been leaked and all because Thomas couldn’t keep it in his pants and Newt have been letting Thomas get into _his_ pants for far too long and Newt then have proceeded to keep it in his pants when it came to _other people_ and he really fucking doesn’t want to anymore. He’s sleep deprived, his leg is killing him and he’s going to shag the hot Asian guy from the bar tonight. Three facts of today.

He so totally does a “Crazy, Stupid, Love”-kind of scene. (That movie was funny as shit so shut up and hello, _Ryan Gossling_ people!) He goes to _Anywhere_ that evening, searches the crowd till he (thankfully) locates the guy and stalks up to him, adrenaline rushing, his blood running hot and he taps the boy on the shoulder. The guy turns and looks surprised, but pleased when he sees that it’s Newt. So Newt kisses him. Closed mouthed, hard and promising.

“You’re coming home with me,” Newt says matter of factly afterwards and sounds way more confident than he feels. “Any objections?” The guy is taken aback for a second, but then he shakes his head, turns to his friend to says something to him and focuses back on Newt.

“I’m Minho, by the way,” Hot Stuff says and hops down from his stool. “Where do you live?” Newt grabs his hand and leads the way out without answering.

 _Minho._ When they’re in the cab, reality hits Newt in the face. He didn’t even know what this man was called before five minutes ago and now they’re heading home to Newt’s and… and so what? Minho has been flirting with him for ages, Newt has been tip-toeing around it, because Minho has never made a move to try and take him home, thought that maybe he didn’t want to and now here they are. Newt realising that Minho has been waiting for Newt to make the next move. When it now has been made though, Minho isn’t scared to continue taking a few steps. He straddles Newt in the backseat of the yellow car after it barley have left the curb and kisses him full heartedly, holds Newt’s face in his hands while he does. Newt’s already moaning. He doesn’t even care that the driver probably hears him. That this is not really safe, none of the cares about either.

They scramble into Newt’s apartment, laughing and kissing and tugging at clothes.

“You sure about this?” Minho pants as he literally falls to the floor. Newt slides down on top of him and sucks at his neck.

“No, I’m just doing this to give you blue balls,” he says and rolls his eyes.

“Hey, that was my plan!” Minho chuckles and turns them over, so that he’s on top of Newt. He rises up, sits back on his heels and runs his hands over Newt’s chest, up to his mouth. Newt kisses his fingers and nibbles at one of them.

“So, _how_ do you want to do this?” Minho asks suggestivly. Newt turns around on the floor, so he lays in his stomach inbetween Minho’s legs, props his ass up just a little. Minho exhales a drawn out _ugh_ that doesn’t sound disapointed ign the slightest. The fabric of Newt’s shirt is pulled upp to reveal his back and then there are kisses on his spine and teeth lightly clasping around his sides. It’s amazing and he tries not to arch too much into it. They’re still wearing all of their clothes except for the jackets, they’re on the floor of Newt’s living room, but Newt swears he could do it right then and there. Somehow they do make it to the bed, and Newt manages to get Minho out of all of his clothes in the process. He himself is only wearing his boxer when he plunges himself down with the covers but Minho makes sure they disapear soon after. Minho licks his way down Newt’s tummy and then up his thighs and Newt crumbles underneath his touches.

“You good?” Minho asks and his breath washes over the sensitive skin around Newt’s cock. He exhales sharply and doesn’t answer.

“Huh?” Minho teases and lets his lips travel slowly up Newt’s length.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, oh god, yes. _Please..._ ” Newt doesn’t have to beg twice. Minho tongues the head of Newt’s cock and Newt can't but wince at the extreme sensation. Minho works him up with lots of saliva and a light pressure, tugging one of Newt’s hand into his hair and Newt grabs a hold if it. Doesn't try to make him go faster even if he'd like to.

“Lube?” Minho asks suddenly, just his hand going up and down the shaft and Newt flails a hand towards his nightstand. It's retrieved quickly enough that Newt doesn't really have time to mourn the loss of Minho’s mouth on him.

“I don't think I can make it if you-” His breath hitches as he hears the cap of the small bottle open. Minho glides off him again with a smacking sound, only long enough to say:

“Don't make it then, we've got all night, don't we?” He ghosts a wet finger over Newt’s rim as he pushes Newt’s cock deeper down his own throat than before and Newt feels himself going boneless. Minho let's him come like that, down his throat, pulling blessings and curses and deep moans from Newt’s lips. The finger that's working Newt open doesn't stop and Newt gets a little bit embarrassed when realises that it's only _one,_ that he came pretty damn fast. Minho doesn't seem to mind in the slightest as he only adjusts himself so he's able to kiss Newt’s gasping mouth and pushes a second finger in. It's not slow, just deliberate and every thought Newt might ever had had about this man being inexcerienced flies out the window.

“Can I fuck you?” Minho pleads, voice almost whining (and so does Newt) when Minho slips a third finger inside of him.

“If you don't, I'll probably kick you out,” Newt answers gasping and Minho laughs. Newt feels loose and light headed and the familiar sound of condom wrapper somehow makes him even more horny. Because then he knows that Minho will be inside him soon and he just can't wait. The feeling is almost overwhelming. But it doesn't hurt and Minho’s making the best sounds, like he can't believe how good Newt feels around him. He thrust in hard and deep and then slowly out. He has Newt begging for _everything._ For mercy, for more, for harder, for faster, for deeper, for release. Minho touches him again and that is it.

“ _Ah fuck_ ,” he cries and after that, anything he says for a while doesn't make any sense. Minho rides him through it and doesn't come until Newt is shaking underneath him with the intensity of it all. When he does, Newt whines. He's never heard anyone sound so _satisfied_ when they come and it makes him want to keep Minho forever.

“That was the best sex I've ever had.” Newt isn't even lying. They're both laying on their backs next to each other, breathing heavily. He feels embarrassed that he just said it out loud but Minho rolls over on his stomach and places himself on the side of Newt’s chest. He brushes a hand over Newt’s collar bone and looks like he’s admiring Newt’s neck or maybe his jaw. It feels like forever since anyone looked at him with any type of adoration. He realises that it probably is too. And he wants to keep ogle Minho (preferably the rest of the night) right back.

“Maybe you should do this again sometime?” Minho says and looks into Newt’s eyes. His irises have a dark brown color, almost black but they glint of honey when the light hits just the right way. Newt smiles and puts his arms around Minho’s back.

“Yeah?” He asks and Minho’s expression turns hopefull.

“Yeah, maybe even after dinner?” Newt looks at him with what he thinks is surprise, but when Minho turns his head and stutters:

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-” Newt thinks he might have looked repelled.

But he isn’t, at all, so he grabs Minho’s chin to turn his head back towards Newt and quickly says, “No, no, it’s fine. I like it. I would love to have dinner.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I fucking told you I would continue. I keep my promises.  
> Rn I don't care in the slightest if it totally sucks, I will write and finish. 
> 
> I do not promise that I will update in the nearest future. Just that I **will** update.

July 4, 2015

Minho did it. They kissed. They touched. He _fucked_ Newt. He was not able to stop himself, and it had been _glorious_. He hadn’t thought it through, he hadn’t thought _at all,_ to be honest, he’d just had Newt all up and close and _demanding_ and he hadn’t been able to say no to _that_. The thing where he might have asked Newt out afterwards had been extremely conscious and not Newt’s fault, per say, but he’d looked so damn good and said that thing and… Minho couldn’t stop himself from asking either. There are a lot of things that Minho hasn’t been able to stop himself from doing lately. The last 24 hours, to be precise. Ask for Newt’s number is another. Cuddle him through the night, waking up in his bed, not even thinking about leaving before Newt wakes, because he sleeps like a baby in Minho’s arms and Newt always looks like he never sleeps. Things are not his fault. Newt is just so intoxicating and Minho can only think that he is already fucking hooked.

“Morning, sunshine,” Minho whispers when Newt’s eyes are suddenly staring at him. _I’m like a trout_ , Minho thinks. Newt closes his eyes again and cuddles closer, presses his nose to Minho’s chest and sighs.

“I wish I won’t ever have to work again,” Newt mumbles. _Like a really small trout on a really large hook-kind of hooked,_ Minho thinks.  

“Common now, detective, what’s this bad work ethic of yours? Who’s going to catch all the bad guys? I’m I really that cosy?” Newt has been very secretive about his job, but at least he’s offered Minho that he’s a detective, so it won’t be weird calling him that. Minho hopes. Newt only makes an “mhm” sound but it still speeds up Minho’s heart. He’s cosy. That’s nice to know. Newt throws his head back a little to look at Minho. Minho stares him down, dares him to say anything. His heart rate is definitely something Newt has heard, pressed up so close there's no way he hasn't.  

“You know, it is Saturday...” and then Minho must be kissing him again because there’s no more talking, only whimpers and hot breaths. Pretty disgusting morning breath but he doesn’t even begin to care.

Quick, dirty and amazing.

They go for breakfast afterwards. Not in a way like “hey, let's go get breakfast as a date” more of a “hey, we've been dating for years and I know you like the waffles down at _The Maze_ so let's go right now, my treat”. So Minho rolls with it. He doesn't exactly _know_ that Newt likes the waffles down at _The Maze_ _Diner_ but Minho buys them for him anyway. By the moaning sounds Newt makes, Minho doesn't even have to ask if he likes them.

Everything falls into place with ease. They don't exactly _decide_ to spend the day together, they just end up doing it anyway. The mood is light, Minho flirts and Newt laughs. Minho walks on clouds, he hasn't been this happy in forever. He's been content, sure, but smiling for no other reason than he just feels like it feels like years since he did last. What they have might be fleeting and it might end any minute but Minho just basks in Newt’s gaze and lets himself enjoy it while he has it.

There's still no plan when they walk back up to Newt’s apartment but as soon as Minho shuts the door, Newt’s kissing him again. Like he hasn't been thinking about anything else since their lips parted last time but this time, there's not as much lust in the kiss. Newt doesn't kiss him because he wants to fuck him; he kisses like he just wants to kiss. It's an intoxicating kiss and Minho loses himself in it for what seems like hours and when his brought back to reality, he's laying in the blond man’s bed curled up to him and it's _has_ been hours.

“I think I'm lost,” Minho whispers against Newt’s temple.

“What? You found _The Maze_ from here, what are you talking about?” Newt pulls away from him, expression confused but when he sees Minho’s smug face, he purses his lips. “If you say you're lost in my eyes or some other clunk, I'm going to leave right now.” Minho snakes his arms tighter around Newt, no intention of ever letting him leave.

Minho snakes his arms tighter around Newt, no intention of ever letting him leave. “‘Clunk’?” Minho says instead and laughs at Newt’s eye roll.

“Clunk, shite, crap, turd. I'm Scottish, deal with it.” Minho huffs a laugh.

“Oh, I don't just ‘deal’ with that; I _love it_. Have you heard your accent? It's sexy as _fuck_.” The older man averts his gaze and his cheeks turn pink. It should only be rather cute, but Minho finds himself turned on by it. “Even when you say stupid shit like that.”

Minho wants to give him that expression every day for the rest of his life. It is a scary thought, as much as it is unrealistic because Newt is literally on his case. He is, without knowing it himself, trying to put Minho behind bars and Minho doesn't have forever. He has minutes, days, weeks, maybe months if he’s lucky and that is just if Newt wants him as much back. Minho sighs and tries to push the thoughts, the blood on his hands and his inevitable reveal to the back of his mind. Telling himself that Newt wouldn't care if he knew isn't of much use. He would never believe it even if Newt told him so, even if he is rather pro-Robin.

Most days, Robin isn't Minho. He is someone Minho becomes because he's needed. He is a vigilante that Minho slips into when the time's right and can distance himself from. It isn't like Minho doesn't have the same ideals as Robin; it is more that Robin actually does something about it whereas Minho doesn't. Minho does the research, Robin smashes glass into men’s throats. But having Newt in his arms, the lines between the two is blurred and Minho has a feeling it won't get sharper with time. He kisses the top of Newt’s head and thinks that maybe he will give up Robin just to be with Newt. For he sees no happy ending if he will keep both. The notion hits him then. That Robin isn't someone he can just shelf to never look at again; for every attack he will see on the news, for ever person he meets who is afraid of walking around alone in the evening, for every sentence that falls “innocent”, there will be a tug at his conscious that there are things he could do, to stop, to prevent, to send a message. He realises with a jolt that he can probably never get rid of it, how much he'd try.

Newt is a pipe dream. Unreachable even as he lays breathing against Minho chest and it makes Minho ache to be oblivious of the world. He feels so old in this moment. Like he's walked the earth for longer than he actually has and seen too much of it. He believes that Newt will understand what he's talking about if he described it to him, but he doesn't dare. They've only had their forever for a short time and he does not intend on shortening it further than he already has. Some things are Minho’s own to carry.

After his half-crisis, there are more snuggles and kissing, and after that there's conversation. Safe topics. Some of them deep, but nothing touching things Minho’s throat would grow thick because of. Despite everything being so hard inside of Minho’s mind; between the two of them, there is still nothing but ease. At sometime Newt leaves the bed to make dinner and he doesn’t ask if Minho will stay but smiles as Minho sits down by the kitchen table and cut some carrots. Minho has quiet down but Newt falls into a story about his boss and doesn't comment. It feels nice and Minho laughs; not because the story is very funny in itself but by the way Newt imitates his boss and the way he tells the story. Minho has only watched Alby on the telly once or twice but he can still picture everything Newt says like he'd known the man for years and it just makes the whole thing even funnier.

When the food is prepared, Newt presses a quick kiss to Minho’s lips before seating himself next to him. Minho makes a decision then. If their time is as limited as Minho thinks, he’s not going to misuse any of it. Newt indicates for Minho to grab food but Minho kisses him instead, long and deep, before doing so. Their forever has started and Minho is going to hold on to it as hard as he can.   


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoooohooo another fucking chapter. here we go. not gonna lie, this came out way faster and cheesier that I had expected. will keep em coming, but don't know when.

July 6 , 2015.

Can you break up with someone you never _actually_ dated? Newt doesn’t know, but whatever he and Thomas had together could’ve been called, he broke it the fuck off as soon as Minho left. Newt and Thomas’s “thing” had needed a little extra push; the Teresa hook-up might have been enough but after spending the weekend practically glued to Minho, there was just no way Newt was ever going to sleep with Thomas again. _Ever_. That Newt lets himself have that bad sex with Thomas for so long is pathetic. And then Thomas had gone and fucked up. Frankly, Newt doesn't give a damn that Thomas slept with someone else, he's furious that he let important information slip. It's simply in everyone's best interest that they never see each other sexually ever again.

The weekend he’s had with Minho have been one of the best he’s had in years. There was an air about the other man that made Newt calm; he could sleep the whole night ( _both_ nights, to be precise) and he didn’t stress over work. He didn’t even check his phone to see if there had come any updates or if he had any missed calls and he can’t remember when he hadn't done either of those. He'd just… lived in the now.

The second night, they fell asleep on the couch all tangled together. Newt woke up in the wee hours and dragged a sleep-dazed Minho into the bedroom, stripped them both completely naked and they hooked legs around each other under the covers. Nothing sexual, they just fell back to sleep.

It was wonderful and quite extremely sexual to wake up to a man naked in his bed, though.

It isn’t until Minho is gone, the bed smelling wonderfully of a mix of Minho’s perfume and _sex_ , that Newt starts to really process everything that has happened. This wasn’t just a shag; this was the two of them taking things a few steps forward because honestly, they’ve been “seeing” each other for _months_ prior even if Minho’s name had not been revealed and they had never been on a real sort of date. It’s almost surprising how totally _stupid_ Newt has been, waiting for God knows what before he made a move. He could’ve had this for at least a few _weeks_. Because he doesn’t doubt for one second that Minho will call him. The other man wears his emotions on his face like no other Newt has ever met.

His phone rings, and it startles him more than he likes to admit. He’s been hoping that it will ring, waiting almost, anticipating. Checking the called-ID, his heart jumps because it is _him_. (Despite being sure the other man would call, Newt still finds himself surprised that he actually did.)

“Hello?” He says; his voice trembling even though he has nothing to fear. The call in itself is evidence enough.

“Newt?” Minho asks on the other end of the line like he can't really believe that Newt actually picked up.

“Yeah, did you expect anyone else to pick up when you dialed my number?” There is a sweet laughter from Minho’s lungs and it makes Newt’s chest bubble with joy. He wishes intently that they had met in another life, one where Newt isn’t cramped up in work and they could just run away together. Leave the world to its own devices. It’s a fleeting thought, one that he barely remembers afterwards; more as a feeling of something that could’ve been. If things would’ve been different. But they are in this universe.

“I thought this was the number of the hot brunette I chatted up last night, but apparently not. You’ll do, though.” Knowing perfectly well that the only person Minho had chatted up this weekend was Newt himself, Newt smirks and puts the phone in between his shoulder and ear as says that Minho is _very funny_ while sorting through a few of his files at his desk. He’s still at the office even if it’s past eight already. He should really cut down on his hours. It’s Monday and he shouldn’t start off the week by drowning himself in work. But that is how he always starts, and continues, and finishes, his weeks so he’s not sure he could just… _not_ do it.

“That’s one of my many fine qualities.” And it surely is. He’s got wits and irony and puns and really bad word plays on his lips at all times. Newt shakes his head and sits down by his desk. He puts his feet up because there’s no one else there and he’s tired, okay?

“What’s up?” He asks and Minho talks about his day at work and it feels so utterly normal that Newt doesn’t even realise that it isn’t something they usually do until Minho starts stuttering about not wanting to be intrusive if Newt doesn’t want to talk to him. Newt shuts him up by commenting something along the lines of “I like you, you piece of clunk, keep talking about your day” and then he doesn’t say anything himself for a while because after saying _that_ out loud, Newt needs a minute to slow his heart rate and not pass out. Which Minho gladly fills with stories and it drifts away from his day to his life and Newt starts chipping in when he feels like he will no longer faint.

Minho stops talking, very abruptly in a story from when he was running track in high school. It’s like his caught off guard with something, but he doesn’t immediately tell Newt what’s going on.

“What?” Newt asks, leaning back in his chair and almost falls on his butt when Minho answers.

“I like you too,” he says, all timid and soft. Newt coughs a little and Minho giggles. It was years ago since someone told Newt they “liked him”, if you don’t count Thomas’s pillow talk (which Newt doesn’t) but hearing it, he feels like a load of anxiety just… rolls off him onto the floor. Newt doesn’t know what to say so he makes a sound that he believes to be appreciative. Minho snorts, so it's clear that he gets it.

“I feel like a school girl,” he confesses then.

“Dude, you fucked me several times this weekend,” Newt hears himself say and he’s actually quite glad this is a phone conversation and that there is no one around because his face is probably the colour of a fire truck. Minho responds with a full belly laugh.

“I’d be happy to do it again, _Newt_ ,” he says and this time, when he uses the name, it’s like a whisper and a promise of pleasure. It makes Newt squirm.

“I’m still at work,” Newt says faintly.

“Oh,” Minho says. When Newt looks at his watch, it tells him that he’s been talking to Minho for over an hour and looking down at all the papers in front of him, he understands that he has done jack shit worth of work in pretty much all of those sixty minutes. He should’ve just packed up and gone home, even before Minho called. There are just so many things that need to be done all the time. He sighs a little.

“I’m gonna go him home, though.” It comes out almost like a question, an invitation. Not that he would exactly _mind_ if Minho came over, but he rushes to continue. “I do this a lot.”

“What? Semi flirt with men over the phone?” Minho snickers.

“Work,” Newt clarifies. ”Work late. Take work with me home. Work in my sleep. Work weekends.” Because he does. All the time.

“And what do you mean by that?” Newt tenses a little.

“That I’m not very… available. I mean… if you...”

“I do.”

“Good.”

“That means you…?”

“Yes.” Newt breathes the word and Minho sounds relieved when he speaks next.

“That’s cool.” They’re quiet for a beat.

“So...” Newt says. Doesn’t know how to continue. He doesn’t have to because Minho speaks instead.

“Maybe you can just call me whenever you have the time? We don’t have to make it more difficult than that.” It was Newt’s turn to be relieved. Because that is really what he wants; he wants Minho and for it to be as simple as it was this weekend. It’s remarkable how fast you can get used to having someone close.

“Yes, I would love that. I hope work is quiet this week, then maybe I can get the weekend off.” _And I can spend it with you._ He almost adds it but feels like maybe that’s a bit much. They might both be quite head over heels right now, but he doesn’t want to burst the bubble or scare Minho off. They aren’t exactly tip-toeing but Newt doesn’t want to cross some sort of line if he can avoid it.

“I’m free,” Minho says casually. _Meaning he wants to spend it with me._ Newt smiles. He feels like he can’t wait for the weekend, longs for it; longs for Minho. For Friday when they can meet next. As long as Robin doesn’t make a guest appearance.


	14. Chapter 14

July 10, 2015.

The reason for why Newt gets a “quiet week” has mostly to do with the fact that Minho doesn’t actually look anyone up. He's wound up tight with desperation to see the blond so there's no way he can just hand Newt overtime like that. He feels dumb for falling so hard for the man because it’s a disaster waiting to happen. He panics about it all the time and he can’t seem to make himself stop.

They meet up at _the Maze_ for dinner on Friday. The panic is soothed just by seeing Newt’s face as it lights into a smile when he enters the door and he sees Minho.

They end up in Newt’s apartment; gasping into each other’s mouths as they jerk one another off, fully clothed and in the goddamned _hallway_ . It’s not even like they have been teasing each other for long, Minho just started, what? ten-fifteen minutes ago? Maybe not even that long. It had started off as a joke that Newt had taken seriously and gotten all flushed and then Minho didn’t want to stop and kept telling Newt what he wanted to do with him. Even if _this_ wasn’t what he’d talked about, it's everything he wants. Newt had joined him with pleads and yes:es when Minho started talking about pressing him to a wall, so that’s what Minho’s doing now.

“You said you were going to fuck me,”  Newt pants and Minho grabs his hair, pulling at it to get Newt to bare his throat which the other man happily does. Minho kisses and nips and bites and Newt flat out moans.

“I also said I was going to take it agonizingly slow, but here we are.” He’d managed to say a lot of things in that quarter; now the only thought is to get Newt off, to see his face as he comes and by the way Newt’s hand is working him, it seems like he's in the same line of thought.

The dinner hadn’t been rushed, it had even been long-spun. They’d finished almost an hour ago but had just kept in their seats and talked, laughed. Newt told Minho about his team, Winston and Fry. Minho feels himself swelling with joy every time Newt talks about his work because it means something. It means that they’ve actually gotten somewhere… _else_. It has been one of those things Newt has been really restrictive about. And he’s just told Minho without Minho being nosy, it was all on his own accords. It made it all even better.

Newt comes first, soiling Minho’s shirt and seeing his body convulse with pleasure and his fingers pressing into the small of Minho’s back and other hand frantically working his dick, Minho can’t last more than a few seconds. They stand catching their breaths and each other’s lips for longer than the actual sex lasted.

They do not define themselves as… a couple. Minho totally would like to, but he doesn't want to make Newt uncomfortable which is the only reason that he doesn’t bring it up. Newt doesn’t either so they just see each other. They fuck a lot too, wherever they can really, but there are also a fair number of times when they don’t. Some days, Newt calls at eleven, one signal and he doesn’t even let Minho pick up. Minho goes to his apartment then, strips and slips into bed with the blond and just holds him till his breathing is steadying and evens out. Newt doesn’t talk about it. Minho has figured out that’s a thing he does. Keeps things to himself, gets flustered and changes the subject as soon as he’s confronted in the slightest about it. Minho thinks maybe they’ll work up to it over time. If they have that long.

July has turned to August but they have still not seen each other, outside of the bar will say, for more than a few weeks. It feels so much longer. He’s let Newt into too many parts of his life. He realises this when Newt comes over to Minho’s flat with coffee from Minho’s favorite place. He’s literally let the lead investigator of his case know where he lives and his routines and Minho can’t even start to give a shit about it. He’s done with panicking, he’s done with pretending that he could ever keep away from Newt when he so obviously can have him. He doesn’t tell him that he loves him then because it’s not the time and it’s too soon but he thinks it all through the night. For every word he says, he adds an “I love you” inside of his mind. That night, when they’re intimate, Minho makes sure it can be called making love without sounding pretentious.

Minho stumbles upon a guy that has to die. He knew it was bound to happen sooner or later; that his _trigger finger_ wouldn't surpass his heart (and dick) forever but he still holds off for longer than he's ever done before. Researching and planning more than necessary. In the end, the man is dead and Minho waits for the phone to call and Newt to tell him that there have come up something at work.

The change in Newt hits hard. Suddenly, he's working 24/7 and Minho doesn't even feel like he's exaggerating. His insomnia is back with full force and not even Minho’s arms around him works anymore. Minho sees him stagger more often than walk and he catches him pop pills a few times more often than he would've liked. Minho feels miserable just looking at him and Newt has taken to avert his eyes whenever Minho can't hold his features in check. It's another thing Newt doesn't talk about.

“Is it worth it?” Minho asks one day when Newt comes by after eleven and has been sitting staring into nothing for half an hour. Newt keeps staring into the abyss and Minho puts a gentle finger on his chin to turn his head towards him. Newt’s gaze wanders over Minho’s face for a second, like he's getting back to reality by the sight. Then he sighs.

“Sometimes, wondering if it's worth it, is _all_ I can think about.” Minho kisses him as sweetly as he can.

The stress gradually slows down over time. When Newt laughs at one of Minho’s jokes, Minho realises how long it was since he did last and he starts to cry. Newt gets perplexed and asks over and over _what's wrong?_ but Minho doesn't know what to say. It's my fault you feel like shit? It's my fault you work yourself into an early grave? It's my fault you haven't _laughed_ in the last fourteen days? _It's my fault and you don't even know it is._ It's the first time Minho cries in front of Newt and he expects the other man to tug at him when he finally says something and it isn't a better answer to the question than that he _doesn't know,_ but Newt doesn't push it further. Maybe that's the only way Newt knows how to deal with it. To bellow around in quiet desperation inside of one's own head. Maybe that is what Minho’s answer conveys. For once it is Newt who holds Minho through the night and it only adds on to his guilt but he can't pull away.

Minho hasn't started to feel guilty about that act of taking his targets lives; no, he feels guilty for making Newt’s life harder than he has to when he knows that if he just _stopped,_ it would ease up. But he pushes his feelings deep down. He never allows himself to cry in front of Newt again, at least not about _that_ , and he keeps killing. Takes Newt into consideration, gives him time to rest in between because he can't see him like a zombie for too long periods of time. He gives him a week-a week and a half of smiling and laughing before he drags him down into misery again. It’s worst the first week and the second is bearable and the third, Newt is mostly like himself and Minho really recognise him again. And then another body is found and the circle continues.

Minho never goes to the crimes scenes anymore.

He isn't proud. He knew mixing the two parts of his lives together like this wouldn’t be a good idea but he hadn’t thought about how emotionally hard it would hit him. The reason for that was probably because he hadn’t seen himself falling for Newt; sleep with him or maybe go out with him, sure, but not like this. It means he's bearing his soul in all ways he can and he wonders sometimes if his ideals shine through more than what is appropriate. If his intervals are being looked at through a microscope. He negotiates with himself but finds that he must let Newt rest, he literally can't make himself kill someone when Newt is already down. And he is scared Newt will catch on.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h o l y f u c k people i wrote another chapter

August 26, 2015.

Newt thinks he’s being stalked. Ever since Robin Hood wrote his name in blood that one time, the killings have changed pace. There has never really been a pattern before, until the last couple of weeks, last few months really and now the killings are almost like clockwork. Newt feels like his connection the the killer has something to do with it. He’s not even sure what his connection really _is_ but it doesn’t seem to matter. It is there; it is real.

Everyone catches on quickly that the murderer has gone into a habit, but Newt is the only one who makes the connection between it all and himself. At least no one else says it aloud. Well, to be fair, Newt doesn’t either  No one vocalizes their concerns and since Newt is investigating this himself, he doesn’t feel the need to put the thought in everyone else’s minds. As long as he knows, things are fine. And he knows. Because he is allowed to get rest inbetween the killings; it makes it obvious to him that this isn’t just a randomly picked pace. This is Hood knowing when Newt can laugh and sleep and when he cannot; and Hood caring about it. It’s down right frightful because having someone knowing who you are and knowing _how_ you are, are two very different things. Yet, Newt isn’t exactly scared. He’s… unnerved maybe, but he’s not a rapist, he’s not a sexual abuser, he’s nothing of what Robin Hood wants dead. So he doesn’t dwell on New York’s saviour. He dwells on Minho instead.

Minho is three years younger but he somehow feels young in areas where Newt feels old. Newt doesn’t even know how to explain it, Minho just feels so _free_ and Newt feels locked in place. Newt has an apartment he’s stuck in, a job he must have, people know about him from the papers. He doesn’t exactly hate it, but when he looks at Minho’s cash, month-to-month rented flat, his freelance work and just general way of living, he’s struck with how _boring_ he himself must be.  

It's almost embarrassing how fast they have fitted themselves into the other person's life. A few months ago, all they had was dirty-dancing and conversations in club booths, and now… Now, Newt can call and Minho will just _know_ what to do to make Newt feel better. It is scary and Newt doesn't want to feel so dependent on anyone, he never had before and he can't even believe that he has started now. But Minho has nestled his way in, making them almost a couple without being so and becoming somewhat domestic and Newt also doesn't understand why Minho would ever settle for this. With Newt. Newt is too much and yet he's so little and fuck, he'd give anything to be able to give Minho the world, but he can't. Minho should realise that already.

Also, Minho is such a social guy and Newt literally has _two_ friends that he actually _likes_ hanging out with. What is even the point of them having this sort of “relationship” when they so obviously aren’t in the slightest like each other? But Newt doesn't know how to let go. He can't find the words to break them up because Minho kisses his lips in a way that doesn't only speak of sex but of _more_ and he doesn't complain about Newt’s habits or work, he's just so _bloody_ perfect. What is Newt to do about that? Give it up? For all he knows he'll drive Minho away without even trying to anyhow.

What he does instead is go about his life with practically more sleepless nights than before, the ones where he sleeps next to Minho the only ones that he actually dozes off for more than a few odd hours at a time. He says to Minho that things are fine when they’re not exactly shit but not really top notch either. He drowns himself in anything he can and it just doesn’t work. He feels sick to his stomach thinking about everything, and yet he just can’t stop because it’s such a huge part of his everyday life nowadays. This man whom he… cares for. And who probably cares for him back, because he’s still hanging around, isn’t he?

“What are you thinking about?” Newt almost jumps out of his skin at Minho’s hoarse voice, but settles back against the other man and curls his fingers around Minho’s arm. He stares into the blackness of the night and he takes a steadying breath.

“I didn’t know you were awake,” he answers. Minho presses him closer, buries his face in the back of Newt’s head and breathes deep through his nose.

“Just woke up.”

“How did you know I was awake?”

Minho kisses his neck a few times, lazily but firm. “You breathe differently. Much faster when you’re awake. Especially when you’re thinking.” Newt wants to tell him that a person can’t just stop thinking; and if there would people like that, Newt wouldn’t be one of them.

“Just go back to sleep,” he says and the words come out too tight.

“Hey,” Minho says and places his head on Newt’s shoulder. It isn’t like they can see each other, it’s too dark and the angle would be too wrong if there would’ve been light, but Newt still feels like Minho’s gaze is on him. “You don’t have to talk about nothing,” Minho says, “but you also don’t have to pretend with me, yeah?”

Newt nods, even if it’s not the most practical thing to do, but Minho gets it and lies back down on the bed. He kisses Newt’s neck once more before tucking himself close and his breathing evens out after just a few minutes. Comfortable. It doesn’t make Newt feel better in the slightest.

“I’m thinking about how I’m not enough,” Newt whispers when he knows Minho can’t hear him and then he wills himself to sleep for an hour before waking up again.

When he opens his eyes this time, light has started to seep into the room and it’s not making it any easier for him to go back to sleep. He curses himself that he forgot the blinds yesterday but doesn’t even care to make the effort to go up and close them. So he twists around in Minho’s arms and with the light of dawn he maps out the other man’s features with his fingertips. Newt loves the way Minho’s hair falls over his forehead when he’s sleeping. Newt loves the shape of Minho’s straight nose. Newt loves the way Minho almost smiles when he’s fast asleep. Newt loves the creases around Minho’s eyes. So he touches; smoothes the skin with his fingers, light enough to not wake the other man up but with enough pressure to not be ticklish either. He doesn’t know for how long he lies there, but when the alarm goes off on the phone and Minho opens his eyes again, Newt still has his hand pressed lightly to his face. Minho smiles and closes his eyes once more, turning his head a little so he can place pecks onto Newt’s palm. Newt loves it when he does that.

“Don’t you just wanna skip work for a few _weeks_ and just stay in bed?” Minho asks.

“Aren’t you the one who wants to know who’ll catch all the bad guys if we were to do that?”

“ _Newt_ ,” Minho cooes and Newt loves the way Minho says it. Newt sighs, but can’t hold a smile. He snoozes the alarm.

“Just once,” he says, pointing at Minho and Minho drags him down for a kiss. Newt loves that way the Minho’s mouth fits together with his, Minho’s fingers in his hair, the sounds Minho makes when he’s content, the way he presses Newt against himself just because he wants to. He can’t help but fall into it; Minho’s fingers, his scent, his taste, his breaths. In a few minutes he’s going to have to deal with Robin Hood again, but right now he can have Minho and for a second he doesn’t have to think about what it all means, or will become, or what has been. He can just… _feel_. He loves it. Newt loves-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do not think just because i wrote one that the next one will come anytime soon. it'll come. just. don't know when.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maaaaaan, these next two will ba little bit shorter because ahhahah i don't give a fuck anymore and the last chapter is going to be longer so who caaaareeeeesssss  
> will upload the next one like tomorrow or something and then the second to last isn't written so that might take another while whoop. only three chapters to go folk!

September 1, 2015.

Everything is fine. Really. Minho is happy when he’s with Newt and Newt has glimpses of happiness that he lets Minho see. They fall asleep in each other's arms after take away and slow sex and they talk on the phone on the days that Newt doesn’t come over and doesn’t want Minho to be at his place either. They have unspoken rules and they follow them with ease because they want the other to feel comfortable. They’re doing good. Everything is _fine_.

Until one day it isn’t.

Minho isn’t stupid; he knows Newt lies to him sometimes. It’s about how he’s feeling, when everything is “okay” when in reality Minho knows that it’s not. He can see it, he can hear it, he can fucking _feel_ it when Newt isn’t doing the very best and Minho offers support or an outlet but Newt doesn’t take it. It’s frustrating, because Minho knows if Newt just let himself go just a little bit, if he trusted Minho a little better, they could go so much further. Minho even believes that Newt _wants_ that because he’s just… too emotionally invested to _not_ want to. He lets Minho _see_ lots of things even if he doesn’t explain much of them and he gets upset whenever Minho is upset, they have that sort of sense towards each other. Yet, Minho thinks, Newt maybe isn’t ready. It sucks, because Minho is and they do not have time for tip-toeing.

However much Minho knows that Newt lies about those sort of things, the first time he lies straight to Minho’s face is another story. It’s a rather small lie, he tells Minho he’s going to Aris for the night and Minho can _see_ that it’s just not true. He’s not going there that at all. Minho doesn’t have the heart to call him out for it, he doesn’t even know why Newt would lie about such a trivial thing but then when Newt leaves, Minho follows.

He hasn’t done that in a long time. He’s been keeping tabs on him, sure, but lately he’s just been having to call and check in and Newt has actively told him where he is or what he is doing or where he’s going. _Like a fucking normal person, in a normal relationship._

Instead he’s following Newt like a crazy person or a very paranoid lover. Newt is already pretty hammered when he gets into the club and Minho considers walking up to him and demand to take him home but then he realises that he’s not even supposed to be here. He shouldn’t know where Newt is, because Newt is at Aris’ and _not hitting the dancefloor with a complete stranger._ Minho feels a stab of jealousy and he’s acting like a child and yeah, a stalker and he feels like he should just go home the whole time. That is, before Newt is not only dancing with another guy but kissing him too. Minho’s brain short circuits for a minute and all he does is stare at them.

“ _What the fuck_?” He whispers to himself. He didn’t know what he was expecting but seeing Newt let another man grab him, shove his tongue down his throat and grind him, is not one of them. The man is buff, black haired and the only thing about him that isn’t attractive is his deformed nose. (If Minho admits it, the guy can work the nose too. It’s of no consolation.) He can only keep looking at them and he doesn’t know how to make himself stop. He wants to stop, he wants to run out of there. He wants to scream and shout and punch a wall, or punch one or both of them, he wants to have never seen it, he wants to forget he ever saw Newt’s dishonesty.

The man is rough, Newt doesn’t seem to mind. He roams his hands all over Newt like Newt is all his, signed, sealed, delivered and like he’s been wanting to do it forever. Maybe he has for all Minho knows, maybe Newt actually knows who this is. Maybe he’s an ex. Maybe they’ve already fucked. Maybe this is what Newt wants rather than anything that Minho gives him. Fuck. Just thinking it makes Minho’s insides turn to ice and when the man whispers something and proceeds to drag Newt away, Newt follows. That makes Minho’s insides turn to goo.

It isn’t exactly cheating. They’re not _officially_ a couple, they haven’t discussed that yet, but it seriously doesn’t matter because to Minho it feels every possible way like this is just _wrong_. He can’t really believe that it’s happening, the whole thing is just so bloody weird and he just wants to talk to Newt about it, ask him what’s going on inside of that mind of his and not let him get away with excuses for once. He doesn’t. He doesn’t. He doesn’t. He slips after them as they leave.

Well outside of the bar, Newt drastically changes. For an untrained eye, it’s nothing; for Minho, Newt goes back to being himself somehow. When the other man tugs at Newt, Newt holds back. He starts walking a little slower, the other man turning to face him and pull him in again.  Minho, even being far away, can hear Newt say “no”; more than once. The man Newt has chosen, doesn’t seem to hear any of them.

“Gally,” Newt says, it’s probably the man’s name, but it definitely is a warning. The dark haired man doesn’t back down, instead he smiles and steps up closer. Minho fucking hates him. As he pushes Newt against the wall of a building, capturing his lips and it for a second seems like Newt is struggling to free himself, Minho has to hold himself from jumping forward, because he’s still _not supposed to be here_. This is Newt’s lying escapade and Minho doesn’t want to make it worse by having to explain that he’s been following Newt, but if this man is forcing Newt into things he doesn’t want to… Then there’s an awful sound as a fist connects with a jaw and the gruff man is suddenly staggering backwards, holding a hand to his face. There is a brief moment when Minho can see Newt’s face and he’s looking furious, but then his fist is flying once more and hits the man straight in the face and he’s drunk out of his ass so he falls on it. Minho wants to cheer Newt on (even though he was supposed to go home with someone else barely two minutes ago), have him beat the sense out of the guy. For being someone that doesn’t usually actually likes violence, seeing Newt like this just makes Minho want him to continue. “Gally” is now making very displeased noises from down on the ground; Newt is saying something to him, spitting it, but Minho can’t make out what it is. Minho actually thinks that Newt might kick him, but then Newt is walking away, leaves without another word, drunk and grumpy.

As Newt disappears, the man he brought out of the bar sits up on the pavement, trying to stop his nose from bleeding. Minho stares at him and wonders why Newt decided that this man was worth lying and “cheating” just to change his mind about it? This guy who basically tried to force himself on the man that Minho loves after being repeatedly told “no” and who needed a physical altercation to stop. A man that is already on the ground. Minho should leave too, go home, take a bath and sleep this night away and hope it was just a bad dream.

Minho takes a breath. Looks around and the street is empty. Minho decides and doesn’t hesitate, and gets to his feet.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was written so long ago and that's the only reason why this is getting updated today whoop  
> gonna try and write the next one but no promises. once the next one is done, the whole story is actually written because i've had the final chapter for ages

September 2, 2015.

It says: “ _4 U Babe”._

In blood.

Next to Gally’s body. And everyone is freaking the fuck out.

Newt wasn't even allowed onto the scene. He's damned to an interrogation room with no windows and a one-way mirror. He's contained. Not _not_ guilty until proven innocent. Because really, Newt has already confessed to intending to take the man home, to clocking the fucker when he stopped listening to no:s. But he sure as hell haven't killed anyone so he's stuck until his - God help him - team has sorted things out. He's not even allowed to call anyone. Which is sort of illegal but he's already talked to his lawyer so the only other person he would like to call is Minho and he hasn't exactly _told_ anyone about him yet, and he prefers it staying that way. He doesn't want to start having to give updates about his personal life just because people knows he has a… _boyfriend,_ or whatever it is that Minho is. (Not that they’re _actually_ a couple.) So he sits quietly in the room and awaits his doom.

It doesn't come as he'd planned. It comes in the shape of Alby and the worst scolding he's ever gotten. There screaming and shouting and hands slammed into the wall and the table. It's Alby being so angry that Newt egged in a serial killer that he _killed_ because of him. There might even be a tear or two but they pretend they aren't there.

Newt doesn't say anything. That is what he's advised to do until he's let out or the room. And he's still there. So. Quiet. But he thinks. Oh man, does he think. He thinks about the disastrous press conference, the “NEWT” written in blood, the articles, the patterns of the most recent killings. If he _thought_ he was being stalked before; he _knows_ it by now. This is also when he gets scared because he's now - whether he likes to admit it or not - accessory to murder. Had he not been stupid and drunk yesterday, and tried to sleep with a guy he didn't _really_ wanna sleep with, none of this would've happened. Because Gally hadn't ever been charged with anything. He wasn't a rapist or a child molester or a human trafficker. The only thing he'd actually done had been kissing Newt when Newt asked him to stop and even if that was a dick move, not even Robin Hood should've thought it worth _killing_ over.

The only conclusion Newt draws at the end to all of Alby’s screaming is that Alby is scared. Newt also thinks that he is wrong. Alby believes Newt is in danger and he's not. _Still_ not. Newt has thought this over a million times; if Robin wanted him killed, he would be dead. Gally wouldn't be.

He's being held for the whole bloody day. It's late in the evening when Fry comes in, nodding ones and Newt stands. They don't say anything. It's not necessary, just the fact that he's being let out is proof that they've found evidence enough to release him (or rather _not_ enough to hold him).

At first, Alby gives him the speech they give all suspects; don't leave the state, blah blah blah. Newt has to tug an age before Alby turns to Winston and too loudly recollects everything he knows about the case. It's nothing much, it stands out from the usual thing with Robin Hood enough so that they're looking for a potential copy-cat but enough so to still rule it RH for the time being. When Alby wants to put men on Newt tail for “his own safety”, Newt politely declines. It's of no use; Alby tells him he doesn't give a shit what he wants and two men will be with him at all times.

“Ain't nobody dying on my watch,” he says and Newt can't find the energy to argue. He just wants to go home. Not much else he can do than follow suit and hope they at least will let him go pee in private.

“ _Newt_?” Minho answers on the first ring even if it in the middle of the night. It makes Newt smile a little. He's been sitting with the phone in his hand for the better part of an hour and he sighs quietly in relief that he didn't have to talk to an answering machine.

“Yeah, hi.”

Minho draws a quick breath. “ _Oh, thank heavens. I got worried about you when you didn't call me back. Are you alright? Where are you?_ ”

“I'm okay,” Newt croaks, heart in his throat because there's no way on earth he deserves Minho. He's considering telling Minho about his day on the phone but he realises after a beat that it’s nor really a good topic so he just puts up a front. He doesn't like doing it with Minho but desperate times called for desperate measures. “I just- It's been a really long day. I'll come over tomorrow, tell you about it, yeah?”

“ _I shouldn't come tonight_?” The concern and reluctance is clear in his voice and it just adds on to the guilt playing in Newt’s stomach.

“No, it's fine, I'm fine. It's in the middle of the night anyway.”

“ _I don't mind_.” _Of course you don't._

He almost says _yes_. He wants to. “Tomorrow.”

“ _Okay then_.”

“I'll see you then.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Minho says again. He lingers for a second before adding:

“ _I'm… glad you're fine. See you tomorrow_.” Newt hangs up with a “night” and stares at his phone. He's really going to have to tell Minho about Gally, isn't he? And Robin. About how Newt kissed Gally’s lips minutes before he was murdered and how Newt - and everyone else now too - believes Newt has a real psycho on his heels. He's going to have to look at Minho and tell him he kissed another man, and Newt feels more like throwing up at that than the whole ordeal with Robin Hood. _Fuck._

He's not really sure why he did it. Why he fell into someone’s advances, because frankly, he doesn’t usually just hook up with random people and it had been so out of character for him. Even if Gally had been just his type and had been someone Newt knew to have wanted him for a while, even if Newt had never before shown himself interested in the man. Maybe Newt had tried proving to himself that he was a) not boring, and b) not really hooked on Minho. He was proven wrong on both points, because looking back, Newt realised that even if Gally wouldn't have gone so far and stopped listening, Newt still wouldn't have slept with him. He couldn't have, he'd realised the truth to point b) when Gally had kissed him outside of the bar. Inside, everything was a blur and the other man’s tongue and grabbing hands turned him on; outside, when the clear night air filled his lungs and sobered him up slightly, everything had just felt messed up. And then Gally earned himself two punches to the face and Newt had a very valid reason to get the fuck outa there.

He feels ashamed. Embarrassed. Maybe a bit disgusted with himself. He doesn't really know how to handle the whole Minho-situation because on one hand he's realised that he wants Minho: no one else and he wants him all for himself. On the other hand. He almost hooked up with a guy that is now dead and has a serial killer stalking him and possibly are in love with him (or at least that's a theory he’s going with now). It's going to be a fucking mess whatever Newt does and he just wants it all to be over already so he can sleep next to Minho again. He's nowhere near prepared, how can he be? It's not like there's a handbook for telling your not-boyfriend that you didn't hook up with someone else and they wound up murdered. And if there is, Newt’s not even sure he'd get much wiser after reading it.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit balls. prepare for sappyness af  
> next, and last, chapter up tomorrow.

September 3, 2015.

“I dodged my detail.” It's the first time they see each other since Newt had his lips pressed to another man's but Minho doesn’t feel any type of jealousy. He's just glad Newt is here now. They're propped up in the kitchen, Minho leaning on his counter and Newt on a chair; Newt looks like he hasn’t slept for a few years.

“You what now?” Minho didn't even know Newt _had_ a detail. He’d banged on the front door and hurriedly entered the apartment as soon as Minho had opened the door just a few minutes ago; Newt had closed and locked it firmly behind himself, so he’d been acting a bit weird. But an actual protection detail? And Newt skipping out on them?

“They think I’m a target, I’m not,” he says, like he _didn't_ just say his department thinks he's a walking _target_. “He’s not going to kill me.”

Minho stares at him. Kill him? _Kill him?_ “Who’s not going to _kill_ you?!”

“Robin Hood.” Everything hits Minho in the gut like nothing else ever has. _They're afraid I'm going to kill him._ He realises he's in so fucking deep over his head, he feels like he’s going to combust but Newt doesn't really look at him so he just carries on. “I presume you have seen the news; you know I work with the case, yes?”

“Yes.” It is no point denying it now. Minho thinks that this is it, this is where Newt tells him that he’s made the connection, this is when Newt tells Minho that he knows. Knows that Minho is Robin Hood and what they have is lost forever. Minho can feel his limbs going numb just thinking about it. The end. He thought they would have a little more time. He looks down at his feet, he just can’t face the other man when he says it. He spares himself a few seconds of whatever is going to be painted on his face. It’s the only thing he can give himself at this moment.

“I almost went home with someone else on Friday.” It's a complete 180 from the conversation; Minho raises his gaze again. Newt looks mostly nervous. Not in an “I know who you are”-sort of way, instead in an “I need to tell you about this and I’m scared about your reaction”-sort of way. This was not the way Minho thought this was going, so he doesn’t know what to say. He stands completely dumbstruck for a long while, long enough that Newt has time to start fiddling.

“Almost?” Is the word he decides will be the best one to ask about. He knows who the someone was, he knows that it was an _almost_ , he knows pretty much everything. It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

He hadn’t expected Newt to tell him about it, but now it’s Newt that looks taken aback. “Did you… hear me?” he asks.

Minho nods. Tries to make his voice sound as diplomatic as possible. “I understood perfectly. Newt, we never _said-_ ” but Newt gives him such a pointed look, a look that contradicts everything they’ve decided and said they’ve been, because Newt has apparently gotten over himself and now acknowledges that fact that this is _more._ More than sex, more than good company, more than just a useless fling, more, **more,** _more_. Minho doesn’t know why Newt needed to kiss another man to realise it, but he doesn’t care. Their time together doesn't stop today but he knows there is still so little time left and he doesn’t want to waste it on feeling like shit, doesn’t want to blame Newt or be mad at him, he wants to waste it on getting Newt out of his clothes. So that’s what he does.

Two days ago, Minho had been high on adrenaline, staring at the body of the man he’d just killed; he’d been wild-eyed and panting and he’d thought that he needed to make a statement. (Like him killing the bloody bastard wasn't enough.) In that moment, he hadn’t thought about the fact that he was being utterly reckless and stupid and way out in the wastelands of morals. He had written the message, sort of jokingly, sort of very serious, and only realised afterwards how fucked up it was and how it would just lead Newt to him even faster, if not immediately. And yet here he sits, with Newt in his lap, and Newt kissing him like he doesn’t know what Minho has done. Because he _doesn’t_. He hasn’t connected the dots yet. _Yet_.

Newt’s breath is hot on Minho’s cheek and it takes him a few seconds before he realises that it’s not just air that hits his face but also words.

“I’m sorry,” is what Newt whispers over and over and over. Minho holds up and leans back.

“I don’t care,” he says and shakes his head. It’s not the apology he doesn’t care about and Newt gets it, but he still continues to apologize. Minho takes his face in his hands and makes Newt look him in the eye, repeating his own words until Newt shuts up. Then he kisses him again and makes it sweet and long.

“I want this,” Newt says as they part, pressing their foreheads together, and he talks about “them” rather than “sex” and Minho nods. “I don’t want anyone else.” Minho holds his breath for a second, Newt smiles; just a tiny, tiny smile. “I want you.”

And then Minho is telling Newt so many things they all come out as a bundle of sentences and letter and words mixed up into an alphabet soup of love. He doesn’t think he says “I love you” but it doesn’t matter because he says so much else, that is highly implied. As he’s saying it all, he’s touching the blond, feeling his skin under his fingertips and lips, and Newt is basically a giggling mess on top of him. It’s a forever trapped in a few hours and it’s the best feeling the world: Newt, compliant and needy and Minho, eager and willing to give the other man anything he wants.

For all the times he will not be able to, for all the hurt he will cause him, for all the thing he cannot say, Minho kisses Newt and Newt is unaware and yet he kisses back with the same intensity and care. It is ease and it is Minho starting to live without realising that he hasn’t before. It is Minho’s fingers clasped around Newt’s hair and Newt bending his head backwards so that Minho can reach better to bite at his neck. It is Newt’s skin, burning hot and sensitive enough so that every brush of fingertips sends small spasms through his body and Minho not being able to stop because the movements only make him yearn for more. It is whispers of unspeakable things, of words that cannot be heard. It is a jigsaw puzzle falling into place, like there have been pieces missing but now they’ve been recovered and safely being put together for the first time ever, completing something thought never to be done. It is brilliant. It is beautiful.

Newt is in his arms when he falls asleep and Minho watches it happen. It’s like seeing one of those videos on Youtube when little animals or babies falls over because they’re dozing off except Newt just rolls his head. It’s adorable. Minho smiles and even though time is certainly running out, he allows himself to feel happy. If he’ll never see Newt again when all of this is has blown out, he will always have this. A memory from a day that didn’t go as planned, but in every way possible ended in such a way that he couldn’t have asked for more. He’s gotten so much, he’s not sure he’ll ever get it again. He’s scared, oh, so scared. But he doesn’t let that manifest today, doesn’t let thoughts or feelings like that in. Today is about something else. Not hope, exactly, but the present. Now; now and what has just been, rather than what will soon be. About Newt breathing on his arm and sleeping next to him and hearing his heart pounding and feeling his knees against Minho’s. Forgetting about “should” and “must” and “going to”, forgetting blood and violence and running and fear. Thinking of late night phone calls and stupid dirty talk, remembering to dive in with your head first because whatever happens: it’s worth it. It’s about being wanted and to want in return. It’s about something _bigger_ , something _extraordinary_. About love. Fierce and fucking fantastic _love_ that Minho will always be able to say that he’s truly felt. And in the end, isn’t that all you can ask for? A little piece of heaven and forever, all locked inside a beautiful man with golden hair, a lively mind and a restless soul.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it guys. The last chapter.  
> I want to thank [Lovi](http://evilqueenofslytherin.tumblr.com/) for this extreme prompt, and for helping me plotting it all up. To [Alice](http://ladyteatotal.tumblr.com/) for going over the later chapters and for being my cheerleader at the end. Also thanks to [mintnewt](http://mintnewt.tumblr.com/) for the [art](http://mintnewt.tumblr.com/post/131273836603/copfbi-newt-and-sociopath-killer-minho) that made this happen! Last but not least, thank you to everyone who has commented and liked this story, it has really made the difference. Keep coming back and there will be more minewt in the future!!!

September 7, 2015.

“Thomas wants us downstairs, said it was important.” Newt looks up from his papers only long enough for Fry and Winston to notice that he isn't planning on going anywhere.

“You know, you can take notes and tell me later, right?” Winston gives Fry a shrug, Newt sees only in his peripheral vision but he believes Fry is rolling his eyes. Newt has been avoiding Thomas for quite a while now and it has been relatively easy. His teammates both leave but they come back just a few seconds later. Alby taps Newt on the head. Newt wants to snap at him but decided not to when Alby starts talking.

“Newt. It is your own fault you started sleeping with Thomas in the first place. Now take the consequences of telling him you’re never sleeping together again. Get. Your ass. Downstairs.” Now, Newt rolls his eyes but decides that it isn't worth getting further down on Alby’s shit list. He slams his folders shut and follows his team to the elevator, eyeing them both, a stern look, which they totally ignore. This better be fucking good.

The forensics have found DNA. _The DNA._ Robin Hood’s DNA. On Gally. They’ve run it through AFIS and managed to get a hit. Thomas looks excited when he announces it, like it makes up for leaking details. It doesn’t, but Newt feels his heart speeding because he will finally _know_. Who the killer is, who's been writing him disturbing messages. He'll know everything. He even offers Thomas an approving glance when he grins and clicks the mouse.

A picture come up on the screen.

And Newt knows that face.

He knows it because he’s seen it several times before, he knows it because he’s kissed it, he knows it because he’s fucked that face.

“Meet Robin Hood!” Thomas shouts, trying to get a rise from the rest. Both Winston and Fry looks (when Newt can finally avert his eyes from the picture) are rather anticlimactic because as they read through the short page and what they can find is that the guy doesn't have a current address and only does freelance work. Newt breaks a sweat. _I know where he stays,_ he should say. _I know where he gets his coffee at eleven,_ he should say. _I need to be put off this investigation because of my relationship with the suspect,_ he should say. But he doesn’t say anything.

Minho left it there by choice, the DNA. If he hadn’t, the only DNA the cops would find on the scene would’ve Newt’s and Newt would be a _real_ suspect. So he made sure some of his were on the body. That's what Newt believes. Because Robin Hood had never left any evidence like this before. And then, maybe it isn't the real Robin Hood? Maybe Minho is just a copycat, because he knows… but none of it makes more sense than the truth Newt have been slapped in the face with. And the truth _doesn’t_ make sense, and yet, it _does._

He leaves the department without telling anyone. He’s going to Minho’s, he’s going to arrest him. By himself. He needs to do it, he needs to be the one who looks Minho in the eye and tells him that his life is over. That _they_ are over. There is just no other way.

When he reaches the door, his heart is doing all sorts of things it shouldn’t, mostly racing so hard that he forgets how to focus on anything else and then he can’t breathe. He pretty much falls down by the wall, legs not holding him, as he tries to sit down. The panic doesn’t leave him for a full on quarter of an hour, while he just sits outside of Minho’s apartment. He can’t believe he’s slept with a murderer. For weeks, months. That he’s let himself grow close to him, rely on him and... He can’t grasp the fact that he… _likes_ this guy, this guy who has killed people as they have been together. He can’t believe that _Minho_ is a murderer. That he’s _Robin Hood_. Because what if all of this, _them,_ is just an act, what if Minho is just messing with him, what if he- But _that_ doesn’t make sense. It should be a risk to be anywhere near Newt. Shouldn’t it?

He manages to knock on the door and when Minho opens, Newt just stares. He looks so ordinary. His tank top too big and falling down a little over his arm and his hair is not fixed so he looks adorable and he’s suddenly so _human_. Not at all like the picture Newt has created in his mind about killers. Newt opens his mouth to say _the words,_ but he can’t do it because this is _Minho._

“Rough day at work?” Minho asks when the air isn’t filled with other words and Newt just stumbles forward and kisses him. Pretends that nothing is wrong, that he doesn’t _know._ Minho just happily complies and snogs him right back.

They fuck. It’s dirty and it’s without saying pretty much anything and it's over too soon. It’s so much better than it should be.

They talk and Newt talks about his case and tries to see if Minho lets anything slip. He doesn’t. He tells him about everything, the bloody messages and the constant killings and Minho acts just like he’s been wanting Newt to tell him about this for ages, but like the only other source of information he has is the news. Newt can feel his heart clench with every word he says and finally it's enough to make him gasp. He heads for the balcony with the words “need a smoke” somewhere between his throat and Minho’s ear.

The cigarette burns down before he’s able to take a deep breath. And when he comes back in Minho’s grinning, and smoking in bed. Newt walks on his knees across the mattress, straddles the other man, takes the cigarette from his fingers and puts it out, Minho only watches his face as he does. Like he's intrigued by Newt’s features. Newt’s going to miss that look.   

“Slow round?” Minho asks, Newt can't but nod. Then they _aren't_ kissing. Only breathing on lips, sliding away before actually pressing. It could be called teasing, but there's nothing teasing about it. It's anticipating. It's a promise. Of what, Newt doesn't know because he's not capable of promising anything at the moment. When they finally kiss, it's desperate from Newt’s part, hungry from Minho’s. They do not speed up. Minho takes his time feeling all of Newt’s body under his fingers, touches the skin and smoothens it. He mouthes yes:es and of course:es on Newt’s skin like it's the truth. It's sick how easy Newt can push everything out of his mind except for how Minho feels against him and he lets it all happen again and again because he cannot stop it. Doesn't want to. In this moment, he truly believes that Minho isn’t faking anything, he’s here because he wants Newt, because he probably loves him. It’s… somewhat ironic.

When they sit next to each other afterwards, both smoking in the bed now, Newt laughs dryly.

“I should arrest you,” he says. That simply and he should. He should not be telling Minho that though. They aren’t looking at each other. Newt doesn't think he can make himself see the look on Minho’s face now when he’s let the cat out of the bag.  

“I’m surprised you haven’t already, I know you take great pride in your work.” Newt’s air just rushes out of him because what can you even answer to _that_? He breathes in sharply. Keeps quiet, so it’s silent for a while.

“But I'm doing the world a favour,” Minho says then before Newt can open his mouth, somehow hushed and strong at the same time. ”You know that. You understand it, you understand me.” Newt snaps his head towards Minho, who keeps his gaze straight forward and doesn’t look to be breathing. It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. That if he does, this whole thing will become better, will become okay and Newt is furious because he _does_ understand him.

“You're killing people!” He shouts before he can think better of it and then Minho is looking at him, and Newt is looking back. For the first time it seems. This is Minho. But it always has been. With those stupid, gorgeous eyes and that annoying, perfect face and-

“You killed a man because of me,” Newt breathes exasperated.

“I killed a man _for_ you. There's a difference.” Minho looks so fucking vulnerable Newt just wants to hug him. He thinks of said dead man, Gally. He thinks of Robin Hood’s message. He thinks of the man sitting in front of him and that this is the man who wrote “for you babe” in another man’s blood and how disturbing it is that he doesn’t want to punch his face in, how he just wants to cradle his face and never let him go. _There’s a difference._ Yes, there is. The “because” makes Newt a part of it, makes him guilty or at least in a position to feel guilty, but “for” makes it something else. It takes the act definitely out of Newt’s hands, it has nothing to do with him even if in some ways, it does. It’s set up for it to be a _gift_ , rather than a reaction to something he’s done. It’s twisted. But it _does_ make a difference.

“This is just sick,” Newt says anyway and shakes his head. Minho has the audacity to shrug then and Newt starts laughing. It's just his luck, isn't it? He had to fall in lo- Date a serial killer. A man who knows him better than anyone, even Aris, and who knows the tricks to get Newt to calm down, who lets him take his time, who Newt can actually fall asleep next to. It’s so much to comprehend. It’s too much, it’s too much, it’s somehow not even a question what will happen next.

He’s shaking when he says, “I am going to go out and grab a smoke, okay? I need you to still be here when I come back because I’m going to arrest you and charge you with first-degree murder.”

“Newt…” Minho says but Newt doesn’t let him finish. He leans in and kisses Minho hard on the lips, closed mouthed and it’s not enough.

“Do you understand me?” He whispers as they part and Minho nods as he sits back against the headboard. He reaches forwards and grabs Newt’s hand, only for a second but it makes Newt’s eyes watery and Minho looks away at the same time as he lets go. Newt manages to pull himself off the bed again and go to the door. Then he has to look back over his shoulder, takes in the sight of the other man, the man he screws, the man he dates, the man he… has fallen in love with. It’s too much for him to handle, so he is finally able to make himself go outside.

He smokes the cigarette to the filter.

Then he goes back inside. The apartment is quiet.

“Minho?” He whispers into the bedroom and there is no answer. A rummage around the rooms and it’s clear. It’s empty. There is only one heart beating here and it’s Newts. It’s beating steady now, and Newt smiles sadly to himself. _Once again_ , he thinks as he gathers all his personal belongings while shaking with exhaustion, _Robin Hood escapes the hands of the law._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehm. Also, I'm sorry. Edit: There will be a complimentary fic. sometime. in the future. pinky-promise. 
> 
> Like my stuff? [Buy me a coffee!](https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mee4ever)


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